The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe

by Unknown

LETTER

FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT IN MEXICO. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Mister Buckinum, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of Our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. It ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather callate he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a PONGSHONG for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat.

his Folks gin the letter to me and I shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed, send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, I don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time, says he, I DU like a feller that ain't a Feared.

I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o'
Prest with Hayin.
Ewers respecfly
HOSEA BIGLOW.

This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin',
A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only looked like
rainin'.
An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners,
An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners,
(Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarter
Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water.
Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n I an' Ezry Hollis,
Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Cornwallis?
[Footnote: i halt the Site of a feller with a muskit as I do plze But
their is fun to a Cornwallis I ain't agoin to deny it.—H.B.]This sort
o' thing aint JEST like thet—I wish thet I wuz furder-
[Footnote: he means Not quite so fur i guess.—H.B.]Nimepunce a day fer
killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder
(Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some for Deacon Cephas Billins,
An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins),
There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller,
It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar;
It's glory—but, in spite o' all my tryin to git callous,
I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus.
But when it comes to BEIN' killed—I tell ye I felt streaked
The fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked,
Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango,
The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet's furder 'an you can go"
"None o' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster.
Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster;
I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us;
Caleb haint to monopoly to court the seenoreetas;
My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!"
An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin'; wut would folly,
The everlatin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in me
An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my.
Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole Funnel
Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle
(It's Mister Secondary Bolles,* thet writ the prize peace essay,
*[Footnote: the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he ollers stuck
to his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone.—H. B.]
Thet's wy he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay),
An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but dont' put HIS foot in it,
Coz human life's so sacred thet he's principled agin'it—
Though I myself can't rightly see it's any wus achokin' on 'em
Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on
'em;
How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceum
Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em),
About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handy
To do the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy),
About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner,
Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner,
An' how he (Mister B himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky—
I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky.
I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilege
Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage;
I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin,
An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin'
Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison)
An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.
[Footnote: It must be aloud that thare's a streak o' nater in lovin'
sho, but it sartinly is of the curusest things in nater to see a
rispecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) a riggin'
himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round in the Reign
aspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of himself. E fany
thin's foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishy
gloary.—H. B]
This 'ere's about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver
(Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver).
The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater,
I'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose tater;
The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin'
Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin'.
He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all,
The holl on't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an' there a
chapparal;
You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat
Is round your throat en' you a copse, 'fore you can say, "Wut
air ye at?"
[Footnote: these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and
the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum.—H. B.]
You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant
To say I've seen a SCARABAEUS PILULARIUS big ez a year old elephant),
[Footnote: It wuz "tumblebug" as he Writ it, but the parson put the
Latten instid. I sed tother maid better meeter, but he said tha was
eddykated peepl to Boston and tha wouldn't stan' it no how. Idnow as
tha WOOOD and idnow as tha wood.—H. B.]
The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bug
From runnin' off with Cunnle Wright—'t wuz jest a common
CIMEX LECTULARIUS.
One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin,
I heern a horn, thinks I it's Sol the fisherman hez come agin,
HIS bellowses is sound enough—ez I'm a livin' creeter,
I felt a thing go thru my leg—'t wuz nothin' more 'n a skeeter!
Then there's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito—
(Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le' GO my toe!
My gracious! it's a scorpion thet's took a shine to play with 't,
I darsn't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he'd run away with 't).
Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasion
Thet Mexicans worn't human beans*—an ourang outang nation,
*[Footnote: he means human beins, that's wut he means. I spose he
kinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles comes
from.—H. B.]
A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on't arter,
No more'n a feller'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to slarter;
I'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkle fashion all,
An' kickin' colored folks about, you know, 's a kind o' national
But when I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby,
Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint much diff'rent from wut we be
An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions,
Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions,
"Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsis
An' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes an' houses
Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson!
It must be right, fer Caleb sez it's reg'lar Anglo-Saxon.
The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water,
An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' ter;
Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copper
An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, which Caleb sez aint proper;
He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly
(Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he'll hev to git up airly),
Thet our nation's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger,
An thet it's all to make 'em free that we air pullin' trigger,
Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee's abreakin' 'em to pieces,
An' thet idee's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases;
Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can,
I know that "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican;
An' there's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs,
Thet stick an Anglo-saxon mask onto State-prison feeturs,
Should come to Jaalam Center fer to argify an' spout on't,
The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared
out on't

This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur,
An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I'd home agin short meter;
O, wouldn't I be off, quick time, ef't worn't thet I wuz sartin
They'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin!
I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may state
Our ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Baystate
Then it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you're middlin' well now, be ye?
Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm dreffle glad to see ye;"
But now it's "Ware's my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an fetch it!
An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shall
ketch it!"
Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty,
Ef I bed some on 'em to hum, I'd give 'em linkum vity,
I'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other [illeg] follerin'—
But I must close my letter here, for one on 'em's a-hollerin',
These Anglosaxon ossifers—wal, taint no use ajawin',
I'm safe enlisted fer the war,
Yourn,
BIRDOFREEDOM SAWIN