I du believe in Freedom’s cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees; It’s wal enough agin a king To dror resolves an’ triggers,— But libbaty’s a kind o’ thing That don’t agree with niggers. I du believe the people want A tax on teas an’ coffees, Thet nothin’ aint extravygunt,— Purvidin’ I’m in office; Fer I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An’ Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic’larly his pockets. I du believe in _any_ plan O’ levyin’ the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes: I go free-trade thru thick an’ thin, Because it kind o’ rouses The folks to vote,—an’ keeps us in Our quiet custom-houses. I du believe it’s wise an’ good To sen’ out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An’ orthydox conditions;— I mean nine thousan’ dolls, per ann., Nine thousan’ more fer outfit, An’ me to recommend a man The place ’ould jest about fit. I du believe in special ways O’ prayin’ an’ convartin’; The bread comes back in many days, An’ buttered, tu, fer sartin;— I mean in preyin’ till one busts On wut the party chooses, An’ in convartin’ public trusts To very privit uses. I du believe hard coin the stuff Fer ’lectioneers to spout on; The people’s ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An’ gives a good-sized junk to all,— I don’t care _how_ hard money is, Ez long ez mine’s paid punctooal. I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press’s freedom, To pint the people to the goal An’ in the traces lead ’em; Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin’, An’ withered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov’ment printin’! I du believe thet I should give Wut’s his’n unto Cæsar, Fer it’s by him I move an’ live, Frum him my bread an’ cheese air; I du believe thet all o’ me Doth bear his souperscription,— Will, conscience, honour, honesty, An’ things o’ thet description. I du believe in prayer an’ praise To him thet hez the grantin’ O’ jobs,—in everythin’ thet pays, But most of all in CANTIN’; This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o’ sin to rest— I _don’t_ believe in princerple, But, O, I _du_ in interest.