JONATHAN TO JOHN.
You wonder why we’re hot, John? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an’ our sons: Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess There’s human blood,” sez he, “By fits an’ starts, in Yankee hearts, Though ’t may surprise J. B. More ’n it would you an’ me.”
Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front parlor stairs, Would it just meet your views, John, To wait an’ sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, I on’y guess,” sez he, “Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell, ’Twould kind o’ rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”
Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win—ditto tails? “J. B.” was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess (I’m good at thet),” sez he, “Thet sauce for goose ain’t jest the juice For ganders with J. B., No more’n with you or me!”
When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn’t stop for fuss,— Brittany’s trident prongs, John, Was good ’nough law for us. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, Though physic’s good,” sez he, “It doesn’t foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed ‘J. B.’ Put up by you an’ me.”