We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut 's right an' wut aint, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o' thing 's an exploded idee. The side of our country must ollers be took, An' Presidunt Polk, you know, _he_ is our country; An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the _debit_ to him, an' to us the _per contry_; An' John P. Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; Sez they 're nothin' on airth but jest _fee, faw, fum_; An' thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum; But John P. Robinson he Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we. Parson Wilbur sez _he_ never heerd in his life Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P. Robinson he Sez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee. Wal, it 's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,-- God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!