JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
A LETTER FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGELOW
Thrash away, you'll _hev_ to rattle On them kittle-drums o' yourn, 'Tain't a knowin' kind o' cattle Thet is ketched with moldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be-- Guess you'll toot till you are yeller 'Fore you git a-hold o' me!
Thet air flag's a leetle rotten, Hope it ain't your Sunday's best-- Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton To stuff out a soger's chest; Sence we farmers hev to pay fer't, Ef you must wear humps like these S'posin' you should try salt hay fer't, It would du ez slick ez grease.
'Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers, They're a dreffle graspin' set, We must ollers blow the bellers Wen they want their irons het; Maybe it's all right ez preachin', But _my_ narves it kind o' grates, Wen I see the overreachin' O' them nigger-drivin' States.
Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, Hain't they cut a thunderin' swath (Helped by Yankee renegaders), Thru the vartu o' the North! We begin to think it's natur To take sarse an' not be riled-- Who'd expect to see a tater All on eend at bein' biled?
Ez fer war, I call it murder-- There you hev it plain an' flat; I don't want to go no furder Than my Testament fer that; God hez sed so plump an' fairly, It's ez long ez it is broad, An' you've gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God.
'Tain't your eppyletts an' feathers Make the thing a grain more right; 'Tain't a-follerin' your bell-wethers Will excuse ye in His sight; Ef you take a sword an' dror it, An' go stick a feller thru, Guv'ment ain't to answer for it, God'll send the bill to you.
Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin' Every Sabbath, wet or dry, Ef it's right to go a-mowin' Feller-men like oats an' rye? I dunno but wut it's pooty Trainin' round in bobtail coats-- But it's curus Christian dooty This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.
They may talk o' Freedom's airy Tell they're pupple in the face-- It's a grand gret cemetary Fer the barthrights of our race; They jest want this Californy So's to lug new slave States in To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, An' to plunder ye like sin.
Ain't it cute to see a Yankee Take sech everlastin' pains, All to git the Devil's thankee Helpin' on 'em weld their chains? Wy, it's jest ez clear ez figgers, Clear ez one an' one make two, Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers Want to make wite slaves o' you.
Tell ye jest the eend I've come to Arter cipherin' plaguy smart, An' it makes a handy sum, tu, Any gump could larn by heart; Laborin' man an' laborin' woman Hev one glory an' one shame. Ev'ythin' thet's done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same.
'Tain't by turnin' out to hack folks You're agoin' to git your rights Nor by lookin' down on black folks Coz you're put upon by wite; Slavery ain't o' nary color, 'Tain't the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer is a feller 'S jest to make him fill his pus.
Want to tackle _me_ in, du ye? I expect you'll hev to wait; Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye You'll begin to kal'late; S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin' All the carkiss from your bones, Coz you helped to give a lickin' To them poor half-Spanish drones?
Jest go home an' ask our Nancy Wether I'd be sech a goose Ez to jine ye--guess you'd fancy The etarnal bung wuz loose! She wants me fer home consumption, Let alone the hay's to mow-- Ef you're arter folks o' gumption, You've a darned long row to hoe.
Take them editors thet's crowin' Like a cockerel three months old-- Don't ketch any on 'em goin', Though they _be_ so blasted bold; _Ain't_ they a prime lot o' fellers? 'Fore they think on't they will sprout (Like a peach thet's got the yellers), With the meanness bustin' out.
Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin' Bigger pens to cram with slaves, Help the men thet's ollers dealin' Insults on your fathers' graves; Help the strong to grind the feeble, Help the many agin the few, Help the men that call your people Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew?
Massachusetts, God forgive her, She's a-kneelin' with the rest, She, thet ough' to ha' clung ferever In her grand old eagle-nest; She thet ough' to stand so fearless Wile the wracks are round her hurled, Holdin' up a beacon peerless To the oppressed of all the world!
Hain't they sold your colored seamen? Hain't they made your env'ys wiz? _Wut'll_ make ye act like freemen? _Wut'll_ git your dander riz? Come, I'll tell ye wut I'm thinkin' Is our dooty in this fix, They'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin' In the days o' seventy-six.
Clang the bells in every steeple, Call all true men to disown The tradoocers of our people, The enslavers o' their own; Let our dear old Bay State proudly Put the trumpet to her mouth, Let her ring this messidge loudly In the ears of all the South--
"I'll return ye good fer evil Much ez we frail mortils can, But I wun't go help the Devil Makin' man the cuss o' man; Call me coward, call me traiter, Jest ez suits your mean idees-- Here I stand a tyrant-hater, An' the friend o' God an' Peace!"
Ef I'd _my_ way I hed ruther We should go to work an' part-- They take one way, we take t'other-- Guess it wouldn't break my heart; Man hed ought to put asunder Them thet God has noways jined; An' I shouldn't gretly wonder Ef there's thousands o' my mind.
--_Bigelow Papers._