A ginooine statesman should be on his guard,
  Ef he must hev beliefs, nut to b’lieve ’em tu hard;
  For, ez sure ez he doos, he’ll be blartin’ ’em out
  ‘Thout regardin’ the natur’ o’ man more ’n a spout,
  Nor it don’t ask much gumption to pick out a flaw
  In a party whose leaders are loose in the jaw: 
  An’ so in our own case I ventur’ to hint
  Thet we’d better nut air our perceedins in print,
  Nor pass resserlootions ez long ez your arm
  Thet may, ez things heppen to turn, do us harm;
  For when you’ve done all your real meanin’ to smother,
  The darned things’ll up an’ mean sunthin’ or ’nother. 
  Jeff’son prob’ly meant wal with his “born free an’ ekle,”
  But it’s turned out a real crooked stick in the sekle;
  It’s taken full eighty-odd year—­don’t you see?—­
  From the pop’lar belief to root out thet idee,
  An’, arter all, sprouts on ‘t keep on buddin’ forth
  In the nat’lly onprincipled mind o’ the North. 
  No, never say nothin’ without you’re compelled tu,
  An’ then don’t say nothin’ thet you can be held tu,
  Nor don’t leave no friction-idees layin’ loose
  For the ign’ant to put to incend’ary use.

  You know I’m a feller thet keeps a skinned eye
  On the leetle events thet go skurryin’ by,
  Coz it’s of’ner by them than by gret ones you’ll see
  Wut the p’litickle weather is likely to be. 
  Now I don’t think the South’s more ’n begun to be licked,
  But I du think, ez Jeff says, the wind-bag’s gut pricked;
  It’ll blow for a spell an’ keep puffin’ an’ wheezin’,
  The tighter our army an’ navy keep squeezin’,—­
  For they can’t help spread-eaglein’ long ’z ther’s a mouth
  To blow Enfield’s Speaker thru lef’ at the South. 
  But it’s high time for us to be settin’ our faces
  Towards reconstructin’ the national basis,
  With an eye to beginnin’ agin on the jolly ticks
  We used to chalk up ‘hind the back-door o’ politics;
  An’ the fus’ thing’s to save wut of Slav’ry ther’s lef’
  Arter this (I mus’ call it) imprudence o’ Jeff: 
  For a real good Abuse, with its roots fur an’ wide,
  Is the kin’ o’ thing I like to hev on my side;
  A Scriptur’ name makes it ez sweet ez a rose,
  An’ it’s tougher the older an’ uglier it grows—­
  (I ain’t speakin’ now o’ the righteousness of it,
  But the p’litickle purchase it gives, an’ the profit).

  Things looks pooty squally, it must be allowed,
  An’ I don’t see much signs of a bow in the cloud: 
  Ther’ ’s too many Decmocrats—­leaders, wut’s wuss—­
  Thet go for the Union ‘thout carin’ a cuss
  Ef it helps ary party thet ever wuz heard on,
  So our eagle ain’t made a split Austrian bird on. 
  But ther’ ’s still some conservative signs to be found
  Thet shows the gret heart o’ the People is sound: 
  (Excuse me for usin’ a stump-phrase agin,