OR, JONATHAN'S PERPLEXING PROBLEM.
(Some Way after Hosea Biglow's "Jonathan to John.")
Jonathan (who has been reading the Articles on "The Negro Question in the United States," in the English "Times") loq:—
It may be ez you're right, JOHN,
And both my hands are full;
You know ez I can fight, JOHN,
(I've wiped out "Sitting Bull").
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
We see our fix," sez he.
"The 'Thunderer's' paw lays down the law,
Accordin' to J.B.
To square it's left to me!"
Blood ain't so cool as ink, JOHN;
Big words are easy wrote;
The "coons"—well, you don't think, JOHN,
I'll let 'em cut my throat.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
Ghost-dance must stop," sez he.
"Suppose the 'braves' and black ex-slaves
Hed b'longed to ole J.B.
Insted of unto me?"
Ten art'cles in your Times, JOHN,
Hev giv me good advice.
I mind th' old Slavery crimes, JOHN.
I don't need tellin' twice.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
I only guess," sez he,
"Seven million blacks on his folks' backs
Would kind o' rile J.B.
Ez much ez it riles me!"
The Red Man,—well, I s'pose, JOHN,
We'll hev to wipe him aout.
Sech pizonous trash ez those, JOHN,
The world kin do without.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
Injuns must go," sez he.
"COOPER's Red Man won't fit our plan,
Though he once witched J.B.
As once he fetched e'en me!"
The Black Man! Ah, that's wuss, JOHN.
The chaps wuz right, ay joost,
Who said the Slavery cuss, JOHN,
Wud yet come home to roost.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
The problem set," sez he,
"By that derned Nig. is black and big,
And fairly puzzles me,
Ez it wud do J.B."
Your Times would right our wrongs, JOHN,
—Always wuz sweet on us!—
But on dilemma's prongs, JOHN,
To fix me don't you fuss.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
Though physic's good," sez he,
"It doesn't foller that he can swaller
Prescriptions signed J.B.
Put up by you for me!"
Thet swaggerin' black buck Nig., JOHN,
Is jest a grown-up kid;
Ez happy as a —— pig, JOHN,
When doin' wut he's bid.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
He's hateful when he's free.
Equal with him, that dark-skinn'd limb?
No; that will not suit me,
More than it wud J.B.!"
Emigrate the whole lot, JOHN?
Well, that's a tallish task!
In Afric's centre hot, JOHN,
Send 'em to breed and bask?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
I'd be right glad," sez he,
"But—will they go? 'Tain't done, you know,
As easy as J.B.
Wud settle it—for me!"
Rouge—there I see my way, JOHN.
But Noir—thet's hard to front!
It wun't be no child's play, JOHN,
Seven million Nigs to shunt.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
We've a hard row," sez he,
"To hoe just now, but thet, somehow,
I fancy, friend J.B.,
Your Times may leave to me!"
[Left considering it.