JONATHAN TO JOHN.
It don't seem hardly right, John,
When both my hands was full,
To stump me to a fight, John,—
Your cousin, tu, John Bull!
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
We know it now," sez he,
"The lion's paw is all the law,
Accordin' to J.B.,
Thet's fit for you an' me!"
Blood ain't so cool as ink, John:
It's likely you'd ha' wrote,
An' stopped a spell to think, John,
Arter they'd cut your throat?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
He'd skurce ha' stopped," sez he,
"To mind his p-s an' q-s, ef thet weasan'
Hed b'longed to ole J.B.,
Instid o' you an' me!"
Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John,
On your front-parlor stairs,
Would it jest 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,
'T would 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 than you or me!"
When your rights was our wrongs, John,
You didn't stop for fuss,—
Britanny'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!"
We own the ocean, tu, John:
You mus'n't take it hard,
Ef we can't think with you, John,
It's jest your own back-yard.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
Ef thet's his claim," sez he,
"The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough
To bust up friend J.B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"
Why talk so dreffle big, John,
Of honor, when it meant
You didn't care a fig, John,
But jest for ten per cent.?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
He's like the rest," sez he:
"When all is done, it's number one
Thet's nearest to J.B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"
We give the critters back, John,
Coz Abram thought 't was right;
It warn't your bullyin' clack, John,
Provokin' us to fight.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
We've a hard row," sez he,
"To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow,
May heppen to J.B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"
We ain't so weak an' poor, John,
With twenty million people,
An' close to every door, John,
A school-house an' a steeple.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
It is a fact," sez he,
"The surest plan to make a Man
Is, Think him so, J.B.,
Ez much ez you or me!"