Or, mebbe, Col. Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know In the country whar the finest Democrats 'nd hosses grow; Whar the ladies are all beautiful, an' whar the crap of cawn Is utilized for Burbon, and true awters are bawn. You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott; Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot; And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue, Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight, Whar the yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night, Whar blooms the furtive possum,--pride an' glory of the South! And anty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth, Whar all night long the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees, And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze, Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay,-- H'yar's lookin' at yo', Col. "John Smith, U. S. A." Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West,-- That part of our Republic I shall always love the best! Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of '69 In the Red Hoss Mountain country for the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine? Oh, how I'd liked to clasped your hand, an' set down by your side, And talked about the good old days beyond the Big Divide,-- Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat, Of the conversazzhyony, 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote, And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago,-- Three-fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom, and Parson Jim, you know! Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high again, And we'd see the snow-top mountains like we used to see 'em then; The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro, And we'd hear the pines a-singin' in the ragged gulch below; And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way, Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play. You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall; And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all! For when a man sojourns abroad awhile, as I have done, He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one. And so they are,--for well you know there's nothing in a name; Our Browns, our Joneses, and our Smiths are happily the same,-- All represent the spirit of the land across the sea; All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free. Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East, So long as he's American, it mattereth not the least; Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword, or pine, His is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine. Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to be known, Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone; And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day Upon the register at Lowe's, "John Smith, U. S. A." ST. MARTIN'S LANE.