(A the’ry, p’raps, it wun’t feel none the better for);
I thought o’ Reconstruction, wut we’d win 180
Patchin’ our patent self-blow-up agin: 
I thought ef this ‘ere milkin’ o’ the wits,
So much a month, warn’t givin’ Natur’ fits,—­
Ef folks warn’t druv, findin’ their own milk fail,
To work the cow thet hez an iron tail,
An’ ef idees ‘thout ripenin’ in the pan
Would send up cream to humor ary man: 
From this to thet I let my worryin’ creep. 
Till finally I must ha’ fell asleep.

Our lives in sleep are some like streams thet glide 190
‘twixt flesh an’ sperrit boundin’ on each side,
Where both shores’ shadders kind o’ mix an’ mingle
In sunthin’ thet ain’t jes’ like either single;
An’ when you cast off moorin’s from To-day,
An’ down towards To-morrer drift away,
The imiges thet tengle on the stream
Make a new upside-down’ard world o’ dream: 
Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an’ warnin’s
O’ wut’ll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin’s,
An’, mixed right in ez ef jest out o’ spite, 200
Sunthin’ thet says your supper ain’t gone right. 
I’m gret on dreams, an’ often when I wake,
I’ve lived so much it makes my mem’ry ache. 
An’ can’t skurce take a cat-nap in my cheer
‘thout hevin’ ’em, some good, some bad, all queer.

Now I wuz settin’ where I’d ben, it seemed,
An’ ain’t sure yit whether I r’ally dreamed,
Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha’ slep’,
When I hearn some un stompin’ up the step,
An’ lookin’ round, ef two an’ two make four, 210
I see a Pilgrim Father in the door. 
He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an’ spurs
With rowels to ’em big ez ches’nut-burrs,
An’ his gret sword behind him sloped away
Long ’z a man’s speech thet dunno wut to say.—­
‘Ef your name’s Biglow, an’ your given-name
Hosee,’ sez he, ’it’s arter you I came: 
I’m your gret-gran’ther multiplied by three.’—­
‘My wut?’ sez I.—­’Your gret-gret-gret,’ sez he: 
‘You wouldn’t ha’ never ben here but for me. 220
Two hundred an’ three year ago this May
The ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay;
I’d been a cunnle in our Civil War,—­
But wut on airth hev you gut up one for? 
Coz we du things in England, ’tain’t for you
To git a notion you can du ’em tu: 
I’m told you write in public prints:  ef true,
It’s nateral you should know a thing or two.’—­
’Thet air’s an argymunt I can’t endorse,—­
‘twould prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep’ a horse:  230
For brains,’ sez I, ’wutever you may think,
Ain’t boun’ to cash the drafs o’ pen-an’-ink,—­
Though mos’ folks write ez ef they hoped jes’ quickenin’
The churn would argoo skim-milk into thickenin’;
But skim-milk ain’t a thing to change its view
O’ wut it’s meant for more ’n a smoky flue. 
But du pray tell me, ’fore we furder go,