Ef I a song or two could make, Like rockets druv by their own burnin', All leap an' light, to leave a wake Men's hearts an' faces skyward turnin'!-- But, it strikes me, 't ain't jest the time Fer stringin' words with settisfaction: Wut's wanted now's the silent rhyme 'Twixt upright Will an' downright Action. Words, ef you keep 'em, pay their keep, But gabble's the short cut to ruin; It's gratis, (gals half-price,) but cheap At no rate, ef it henders doin'; Ther' 's nothin' wuss, 'less 't is to set A martyr-prem'um upon jawrin': Teapots git dangerous, ef you shet Their lids down on 'em with Fort Warren. 'Bout long enough it's ben discussed Who sot the magazine afire, An' whether, ef Bob Wickliffe bust, 'T would scare us more or blow us higher, D' ye s'pose the Gret Foreseer's plan Wuz settled fer him in town-meetin'? Or thet ther' 'd ben no Fall o' Man, Ef Adam'd on'y bit a sweetin'? Oh, Jon'than, ef you want to be A rugged chap agin an' hearty, Go fer wutever'll hurt Jeff D., Nut wut'll boost up ary party. Here's hell broke loose, an' we lay flat With half the univarse a-singein', Till Sen'tor This an' Gov'nor Thet Stop squabblin' fer the garding-ingin'. It's war we're in, not politics; It's systems wrastlin' now, not parties; An' victory in the eend'll fix Where longest will an' truest heart is. An' wut's the Guv'ment folks about? Tryin' to hope ther' 's nothin' doin', An' look ez though they didn't doubt Sunthin' pertickler wuz a-brewin'. Ther' 's critters yit thet talk an' act Fer wut they call Conciliation; They'd hand a buff'lo-drove a tract When they wuz madder than all Bashan. Conciliate? it jest means _be kicked_, No metter how they phrase an' tone it; It means thet we're to set down licked, Thet we're poor shotes an' glad to own it! A war on tick's ez dear'z the deuce, But it wun't leave no lastin' traces, Ez't would to make a sneakin' truce Without no moral specie-basis: Ef green-backs ain't nut jest the cheese, I guess ther' 's evils thet's extremer,-- Fer instance,--shinplaster idees Like them put out by Gov'nor Seymour. Last year, the Nation, at a word, When tremblin' Freedom cried to shield her, Flamed weldin' into one keen sword Waitin' an' longin' fer a wielder: A splendid flash!--an' how'd the grasp With sech a chance ez thet wuz tally? Ther' warn't no meanin' in our clasp,-- Half this, half thet, all shilly-shally. More men? More Man! It's there we fail; Weak plans grow weaker yit by lengthenin': Wut use in addin' to the tail, When it's the head's in need o' strengthenin'? We wanted one thet felt all Chief From roots o' hair to sole o' stockin', Square-sot with thousan'-ton belief In him an' us, ef earth went rockin'!