We own the ocean, tu, John, You mus’ n’ take it hard, Ef we can’t think with you, John, It’s just 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 t’ you an’ me!” We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought ’twas 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 just now; but thet, somehow, May happen 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 fer her sake, now, They’ve left the axe an’ saw, John, The anvil an’ the plow. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, Ef ’t warn’t fer 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 got a cause, John, Thet ’s honest, just, an’ true; We thought ’t would win applause, John, Ef nowhere 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 fergive,” sez he, “But not ferget; an’ some time yet Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!” God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an’ understand, John, The _wuth_ o’ bein’ free. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess God’s price is high,” sez he; “But nothin’ else than wut he sells Wears long, an’ thet J. B. May larn, like you an’ me!” [Illustration] THERE’S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET. BY JAMES R. RANDALL.