They may talk o' Freedom's airy Tell they're pupple in the face,-- It's a grand gret cemetary Fer the barthrights of our race; They jest want this Californy So's to lug new slave-states in To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, An' to plunder ye like sin. Aint it cute to see a Yankee Take sech everlastin' pains, All to git the Devil's thankee, Helpin' on 'em weld their chains? Wy, it's jest ez clear ez figgers, Clear ez one an' one make two, Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers Want to make wite slaves o' you. Tell ye jest the eend I've come to Arter cipherin' plaguy smart, An' it makes a handy sum, tu, Any gump could larn by heart; Laborin' man an' laborin' woman Hev one glory an' one shame, Ev'y thin' thet's done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same. 'T aint by turnin' out to hack folks You're agoin' to git your right, Nor by lookin' down on black folks Coz you're put upon by wite; Slavery aint o' nary color, 'T aint the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer in a feller 'S jest to make him fill its pus. Want to tackle _me_ in, du ye? I expect you'll hev to wait; Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye You'll begin to kal'klate; 'Spose the crows wun't fall to pickin' All the carkiss from your bones, Coz you helped to give a lickin' To them poor half-Spanish drones? Jest go home an' ask our Nancy Wether I'd be sech a goose Ez to jine ye,--guess you'd fancy The etarnal bung wuz loose! She wants me fer home consumption, Let alone the hay's to mow,-- Ef you're arter folks o' gumption, You've a darned long row to hoe. Take them editors thet's crowin' Like a cockerel three months old,-- Don't ketch any on 'em goin', Though they _be_ so blasted bold; _Aint_ they a prime lot o' fellers? 'Fore they think on't they will sprout, (Like a peach thet's got the yellers,) With the meanness bustin' out. Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin' Bigger pens to cram with slaves, Help the men thet's ollers dealin' Insults on your fathers' graves; Help the strong to grind the feeble, Help the many agin the few, Help the men thet call your people Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew! Massachusetts, God forgive her, She's akneelin' with the rest, She, thet ough' to ha' clung fer ever In her grand old eagle-nest; She thet ough' to stand so fearless Wile the wracks are round her hurled, Holdin' up a beacon peerless To the oppressed of all the world! Haint they sold your colored seamen? Haint they made your env'ys wiz? _Wut_'ll make ye act like freemen? _Wut_'ll git your dander riz? Come, I'll tell ye wut I'm thinkin' Is our dooty in this fix, They'd ha' done't ez quick ez winkin' In the days o' seventy-six.