Admittin’ we wuz nat’lly right an’ you wuz nat’lly wrong,
Coz you wuz lab’rin’-folks an’ we wuz wut they call bong-tong,
An’ coz there warn’t no fight in ye more ’n in a mashed potater,
While two o’ us can’t skurcely meet but wut we fight by natur’,
An’ th’ ain’t a bar-room here would pay for openin’ on ’t a night,
Without it giv the priverlege o’ bein’ shot at sight,
Which proves we’re Natur’s noblemen, with whom it don’t surprise
The British aristoxy should feel boun’ to sympathize,—
Seein’ all this, an’ seein’, tu, the thing wuz strikin’ roots
While Uncle Sam sot still in hopes thet some one ’d bring his boots,