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 ax an' saw, John, The anvil an' the plough. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef 'twarn't for law," sez he, "There'd be one shindy from here to Indy, An' thet don't suit J. B. (When 'tain't 'twixt you an' me!)" We know we've got a cause, John, Thet's honest, just an' true; We thought 'twould 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!" 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!" THE CUMBERLAND HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW March 8, 1862 _The "Cumberland" was sunk by the iron-clad rebel ram "Merrimac," going down with her colors flying, and firing even as the water rose over the gunwale._ At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide.