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81. | LXXXI.
LINES ONTO O. P. MORTON, THE TIRENT UV INJEANY. |
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LXXXI.
LINES ONTO O. P. MORTON, THE TIRENT UV INJEANY. Divers views, opinions, and prophecies of yoors
trooly, Petroleum V. Nasby | ||
288
81. LXXXI.
LINES ONTO O. P. MORTON, THE TIRENT UV INJEANY.
Nero[1]
the sekkund! O, wat a horrid fate,
Wuz Injeana's in that dredful hour
Thou wust made guvner, and got the power
To rool the Dimokrasy uv that noble Stait!
Mournin will not avale! but O, hed Dan-
iel Voorhees[2] sot wher thou hast sot,
Dost think that the Gorriller[3] wood hev got
The help he hed when fust the war began?
Inscribin “No Coershun” on his banner,
Bold Daniel wood hev let no man enlist,
'Cept sech ez wood, in Suthern ranks, assist
In rightin things in a constooshnel manner.
Wuz Injeana's in that dredful hour
Thou wust made guvner, and got the power
To rool the Dimokrasy uv that noble Stait!
Mournin will not avale! but O, hed Dan-
iel Voorhees[2] sot wher thou hast sot,
Dost think that the Gorriller[3] wood hev got
The help he hed when fust the war began?
Inscribin “No Coershun” on his banner,
Bold Daniel wood hev let no man enlist,
'Cept sech ez wood, in Suthern ranks, assist
In rightin things in a constooshnel manner.
289
The Golden Cirkle wood hev growd in vigger,
No sneekin provo-marshels wood hev vext us,
No horrer-spredin drafts wood e'er hev tetcht us;
Wich drags us 4th, a fightin for the nigger.
And then Ristine and Athon, and a skore
Uv sich-like patriots, wood hev rooled the Stait;
And Dodd, the grate, wood not now cuss his fate,
A hopelis exel on a furrin shoar.
Teers ain't uv no akkount! but, O. P., take my cuss,
Ez stingin hot ez helpless hate kin make it;
A thirst for venjence with no chance to slake it;
Hopeless and helpless! kin a fate be wuss?
[The last stanzy, wich contanes the cuss—after Moore.]
May all yer roses turn 2 ashes 'fore yer eyes—
May all yer whisky turn 2 camfene on yer lip—
May all yoo hope for frum yer fingers slip,
Jest ez yoo think yoo 've got sekoor the prize.
No sneekin provo-marshels wood hev vext us,
No horrer-spredin drafts wood e'er hev tetcht us;
Wich drags us 4th, a fightin for the nigger.
And then Ristine and Athon, and a skore
Uv sich-like patriots, wood hev rooled the Stait;
And Dodd, the grate, wood not now cuss his fate,
A hopelis exel on a furrin shoar.
Teers ain't uv no akkount! but, O. P., take my cuss,
Ez stingin hot ez helpless hate kin make it;
A thirst for venjence with no chance to slake it;
Hopeless and helpless! kin a fate be wuss?
[The last stanzy, wich contanes the cuss—after Moore.]
May all yer roses turn 2 ashes 'fore yer eyes—
May all yer whisky turn 2 camfene on yer lip—
May all yoo hope for frum yer fingers slip,
Jest ez yoo think yoo 've got sekoor the prize.
[1]
Nero wuz a Emprer uv Rome—so ornery that dorgs hev alluz bin named after him. His only redeemin quality wuz his fondnis for music, wich wuz so overpowerin that he fiddled the Arkansaw Travler wile Rome wuz a burnin. He persekootid the saints, hentz I liken him 2 Morton.
LXXXI.
LINES ONTO O. P. MORTON, THE TIRENT UV INJEANY. Divers views, opinions, and prophecies of yoors
trooly, Petroleum V. Nasby | ||