Who made the law thet hurts, John, _Heads I win,--ditto, tails?_ "_J.B._" was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, (I'm good at thet,)" sez he, "Thet sauce for goose ain't _jest_ the juice For ganders with J.B., No more than you or me!" When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn't stop for fuss,-- Britanny's trident-prongs, John, Was good 'nough law for us. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Though physic's good," sez he, "It doesn't foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed 'J.B.,' Put up by you an' me!" We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus'n't take it hard, Ef we can't think with you, John, It's jest 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 you an' me!" We give the critters back, John, Coz Abram thought 't was 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 jest now; but thet, somehow, May heppen 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 for her sake, now, They've left the axe an' saw, John, The anvil an' the plough. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef't warn't for 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 gut a cause, John, Thet's honest, just, an' true; We thought't would 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!"