An orn’ment o’ saciety, in my approprut spear:
She wanted somebody, ye see, o’ taste an’ cultivation,
To talk along o’ preachers when they stopt to the plantation;
For folks in Dixie th’t read an’ write, onless it is by jarks,
Is skurce ez wut they wuz among th’ oridgenal patriarchs;
To fit a feller f’ wut they call the soshle higherarchy,
All thet you’ve gut to know is jest beyund an evrage darky;
Schoolin’ ’s wut they can’t seem to stan’, they’re tu consarned high-pressure,
An’ knowin’ t’ much might spile a boy for bein’ a Secesher.
We hain’t no settled preachin’ here, ner ministeril taxes;