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Jonatban to jobn
We own the ocean, tu, John,
You mus' n' take it hard,
It 's just your own back yard,
Ef thet's his claim," sez he,
To bust up friend J. B.
Why talk so dreffile big, John,
Of honor when it meant
But jest for ten per cent ?
He's like the rest,” sez he ;
Thet’s nearest to J. B.,
We give the critters back, John,
Cos Abram thought ’t was right;
Provokin' us to fight.
We've a hard row," sez he,
May happen to J. B.,
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,
Is, think him so, J. B.,
Our folks believe in Law, John ;
An' it's fer her sake, now,
The anvil an' the plow.
Ef 't warn’t fer law,” sez he, “There 'd be one shindy from here to Indy;
An' thet don't suit J. B.
We know we've got a cause, John,
Thet 's honest, just, an' true;
Ef nowhere else, from you,
His love of right,” sez he,
There 's natur' in J. B.,
Jonatban to jobn
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;
Why there's the old J. B.
Shall it be love or hate, John ?
It 's you thet 's to decide ;
Like all the world's beside ?
Wise men fergive," sez he,
God means to make this laud, John,
Clear thru, from sea to sea,
The wuth o' bein' free.
God's price is high,” sez he;
Wears long, an' thet J. B.
THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET.
BY JAMES R. RANDALL.
[First printed in the Richmond Examiner. Written while the author was in prison.]
Y the blue Patapsco's billowy dash
The tyrant's war-shout comes,
And the growl of his sullen drums.
And we shall not forgive or forget ;
There 's life in the old land yet!
Minions! we sleep but we are not dead ;
We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred; We crouch-t to welcome the triumph tread
Of the peerless Beauregard.
When the Southern braves are met ;
Tbere's Life in the Old Land Vet
Bigots ! ye quell not the valiant mind
With the clank of an iron chain ;
O’er Merriman, Thomas, and Kane;
While down by McHenry's dungeon walls
Our women have hung their harps away,
And they scowl on your brutal bands,
In their dear, defiant hands.
Ere the Northern sun is set;
There's life iu the old land yet!
There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,
'Tis vocal without noise ; It gushed o’er Manassas' solemn plains,
From the blood of the MARYLAND Boys! That blood shall cry aloud, and rise
With an everlasting threat ; By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies,
There's life in the old land yet! [Southern.]