Now a dastardly notion is gittin' about Thet our bladder is bust an' the gas oozin' out, An' onless we can mennage in some way to stop it, Why, the thing's a gone coon, an' we might ez wal drop it. Brag works wal at fust, but it ain't jes' the thing For a stiddy inves'ment the shiners to bring, An' votin' we're prosp'rous a hundred times over Wun't change bein' starved into livin' on clover. Manassas done sunthin' tow'rds drawin' the wool O'er the green, anti-slavery eyes o' John Bull: Oh, _warn't_ it a godsend, jes' when sech tight fixes Wuz crowdin' us mourners, to throw double-sixes! I wuz tempted to think, an' it wuzn't no wonder, Ther' wuz reelly a Providence,--over or under,-- When, all packed for Nashville, I fust ascertained From the papers up North wut a victory we'd gained, 'T wuz the time for diffusin' correc' views abroad Of our union an' strength an' relyin' on God; An', fact, when I'd gut thru my fust big surprise, I much ez half b'lieved in my own tallest lies, An' conveyed the idee thet the whole Southun popperlace Wuz Spartans all on the keen jump for Thermopperlies, Thet set on the Lincolnites' bombs till they bust, An' fight for the priv'lege o' dyin' the fust; But Roanoke, Bufort, Millspring, an' the rest Of our recent starn-foremost successes out West, Hain't left us a foot for our swellin' to stand on,-- We've showed _too_ much o' wut Buregard calls _abandon_, For all our Thermopperlies (an' it's a marcy We hain't hed no more) hev ben clean vicy-varsy, An' wut Spartans wuz lef' when the battle wuz done Wuz them thet wuz too unambitious to run. Oh, ef we hed on'y jes' gut Reecognition, Things now would ha' ben in a different position! You'd ha' hed all you wanted: the paper blockade Smashed up into toothpicks,--unlimited trade In the one thing thet's needfle, till niggers, I swow, Hed ben thicker 'n provisional shinplasters now,-- Quinine by the ton 'ginst the shakes when they seize ye,-- Nice paper to coin into C.S.A. specie; The voice of the driver'd be heerd in our land, An' the univarse scringe, ef we lifted our hand: Wouldn't _thet_ be some like a fulfillin' the prophecies, With all the fus' fem'lies in all the best offices? 'T wuz a beautiful dream, an' all sorrer is idle,-- But _ef_ Lincoln _would_ ha' hanged Mason an' Slidell! They ain't o' no good in European pellices, But think wut a help they'd ha' ben on their gallowses! They'd ha' felt they wuz truly fulfillin' their mission, An', oh, how dog-cheap we'd ha' gut Reecognition!