But to another suckemstance more dellykit to tech,—
I want thet you should grad’lly break my merriage to Jerushy,
An’ ther’ ’s a heap of argymunts thet’s emple to indooce ye:
Fust place, State’s Prison,—wal, it’s true it warn’t fer crime, o’ course,
But then it’s jest the same fer her in gittin’ a disvorce;
Nex’ place, my State’s secedin’ out hez leg’lly lef’ me free
To merry any one I please, pervidin’ it’s a she;
Fin’lly, I never wun’t come back, she needn’t hev no fear on ’t,
But then it ’s wal to fix things right fer fear Miss S. should hear on ’t;
Lastly, I’ve gut religion South, an’ Rushy she’s a pagan