An’ ignorant folks is ollers sot an’ wun’t git used to takin’ on ’em;
They’re wuth ez much ez wut they wuz afore ole Mem’nger signed ’em,
An’ go off middlin’ wal for drinks, when ther’ ’s a knife behind ’em:
We du miss silver, jest fer thet an’ ridin’ in a bus,
Now we’ve shook off the despots thet wuz suckin’ at our pus;
An’ it’s because the South’s so rich; ’t wuz nat’ral to expec’
Supplies o’ change wuz jest the things we shouldn’t recollec’;
We’d ough’ to ha’ thought aforehan’, though, o’ thet good rule o’ Crockett’s,
For ’t ’s tiresome cairin’ cotton-bales an’ niggers in your pockets,
Ner ’t ain’t quite hendy to pass off one o’ your six-foot Guineas