Ef _thet's_ wilt you expect, you'll _hev_ to wait: Folks never understand the folks they hate: She'll fin' some other grievance jest ez good, 'Fore the month's out, to git misunderstood. England cool off! She'll do it, ef she sees She's run her head into a swarm o' bees. I ain't so prejudiced ez wut you spose: I hev thought England was the best thet goes; Remember, (no, you can't,) when _I_ was reared, _God save the King_ was all the tune you heerd: But it's enough to turn Wachuset roun', This stumpin' fellers when you think they're down. THE MONIMENT. But, neighbor, ef they prove their claim at law, The best way is to settle, an' not jaw. An' don't le' 's mutter 'bout the awfle bricks We'll give 'em, ef we ketch 'em in a fix: That 'ere's most frequently the kin' o' talk Of critters can't be kicked to toe the chalk; Your "You'll see _nex'_ time!" an' "Look out bimeby!" Most ollers ends in eatin' umble-pie. 'T wun't pay to scringe to England: will it pay To fear thet meaner bully, old "They'll say"? Suppose they _du_ say: words are dreffle bores, But they ain't quite so bad ez seventy-fours. Wut England wants is jest a wedge to fit Where it'll help to widen out our split: She's found her wedge, an' 't ain't for us to come An' lend the beetle thet's to drive it home. For growed-up folks like us 't would be a scandle, When we git sarsed, to fly right off the handle. England ain't _all_ bad, coz she thinks us blind: Ef she can't change her skin, she can her mind; An' you will see her change it double-quick, Soon ez we've proved thet we're a-goin' to lick. She an' Columby's gut to be fas' friends; For the world prospers by their privit ends: 'T would put the clock back all o' fifty years, Ef they should fall together by the ears. THE BRIDGE. You may be right; but hearken in your ear,-- I'm older 'n you,--Peace wun't keep house with Fear: Ef you want peace, the thing you've gut to du Is jest to show you're up to fightin', tu. _I_ recollect how sailors' rights was won Yard locked in yard, hot gun-lip kissin' gun: Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up thet he Hed gut a kind o' mortgage on the sea; You'd thought he held by Gran'ther Adam's will, An' ef you knuckle down, _he_'ll think so still. Better thet all our ships an' all their crews Should sink to rot in ocean's dreamless ooze, Each torn flag wavin' chellenge ez it went, An' each dumb gun a brave man's moniment, Than seek sech peace ez only cowards crave: Give me the peace of dead men or of brave! THE MONIMENT.