We own the ocean, tu, John: 
   You mus’n’t take it hard,
  Ef we can’t think with you, John,
   It’s jest your own back-yard. 
      Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
      Ef thet’s his claim,” sez he,
      “The fencin’-stuff ’ll cost enough
      To bust up friend J.B.,
      Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

  Why talk so dreffle big, John,
   Of honor, when it meant
  You didn’t care a fig, John,
   But jest for ten per cent.? 
      Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
      He’s like the rest,” sez he: 
      “When all is done, it’s number one
      Thet’s nearest to J.B.,
      Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

  We give the critters back, John,
   Coz Abram thought ’t was right;
  It warn’t your bullyin’ clack, John,
   Provokin’ us to fight. 
      Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
      We’ve a hard row,” sez he,
      “To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow,
      May heppen to J.B.,
      Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

  We ain’t so weak an’ poor, John,
   With twenty million people,
  An’ close to every door, John,
   A school-house an’ a steeple. 
      Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
      It is a fact,” sez he,
      “The surest plan to make a Man
      Is, Think him so, J.B.,
      Ez much ez you or me!”

  Our folks believe in Law, John;
   An’ it’s for her sake, now,
  They’ve left the axe an’ saw, John,
   The anvil an’ the plough. 
      Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
      Ef’t warn’t for law,” sez he,
      “There’d be one shindy from here to Indy;
      An’ thet don’t suit J.B. 
      (When’t ain’t ‘twixt you an’ me!)”

  We know we’ve gut a cause, John,
   Thet’s honest, just, an’ true;
  We thought’t would win applause, John,
   Ef nowheres else, from you. 
      Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
      His love of right,” sez he,
          “Hangs by a rotten fibre o’ cotton: 
          There’s natur’ in J.B.,
          Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

  The South says, “Poor folks down!” John,
    An’ “All men up!” say we,—­
  “White, yaller, black, an’ brown, John: 
    Now which is your idee?”
          Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
          John preaches wal,” sez he;
          “But, sermon thru, an’ come to du,
          Why, there’s the old J.B. 
          A-crowdin’ you an’ me!”

  Shall it be love or hate, John? 
    It’s you thet’s to decide;
  Ain’t your bonds held by Fate, John,
  Like all the world’s beside? 
          Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
          Wise men forgive,” sez he,
          “But not forget; an’ some time yet
          Thet truth may strike J.B.,
          Ez wal ez you an’ me!”