Aprul 's come back; the swellin' buds of oak Dim the fur hillsides with a purplish smoke; The brooks are loose an', singing to be seen, (Like gals,) make all the hollers soft an' green; The birds are here, for all the season 's late; They take the sun's height an' don' never wait; Soon 'z he officially declares it 's spring Their light hearts lift 'em on a north'ard wing, An' th'ain't an acre, fur ez you can hear, Can't by the music tell the time o' year; But thet white dove Carliny scared away, Five year ago, jes' sech an Aprul day; Peace, that we hoped 'ould come an' build last year An' coo by every housedoor, is n't here,-- No, nor won't never be, for all our jaw, Till we 're ez brave in pol'tics ez in war! O Lord, ef folks wuz made so 's 't they could see The bagnet-pint there is to an idee! Ten times the danger in 'em th' is in steel; They run your soul thru an' you never feel, But crawl about an' seem to think you 're livin', Poor shells o' men, nut wuth the Lord's forgivin', Till you come bunt agin a real live fact, An' go to pieces when you 'd ough' to act! Thet kin' o' begnet 's wut we 're crossin' now, An' no man, fit to nevvigate a scow, 'Ould stan' expectin' help from Kingdom Come While t' other side druv their cold iron home. My frien's, you never gethered from my mouth, No, nut one word ag'in the South ez South, Nor th' ain't a livin' man, white, brown, nor black, Gladder 'n wut I should be to take 'em back; But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fust To write up on his door, "No goods on trust"; Give us cash down in ekle laws for all, An' they 'll be snug inside afore nex' fall. Give wut they ask, an' we shell hev Jamaker, Wuth minus some consid'able an acre; Give wut they need, an' we shell git 'fore long A nation all one piece, rich, peacefle, strong; Make 'em Amerikin, an' they'll begin To love their country ez they loved their sin; Let 'em stay Southun, an' you 've kep' a sore Ready to fester ez it done afore. No mortle man can boast of perfic' vision, But the one moleblin' thing is Indecision, An' th' ain't no futur' for the man nor state Thet out of j-u-s-t can't spell great. Some folks 'ould call thet reddikle; do you? 'T wuz commonsense afore the war wuz thru; _Thet_ loaded all our guns an' made 'em speak So 's 't Europe heared 'em clearn acrost the creek; "They 're drivin' o' their spiles down now," sez she, To the hard grennit o' God's fust idee; "Ef they reach thet, Democ'cy need n't fear The tallest airthquakes _we_ can git up here."