Long ’z you let ary exe be groun’; ’less ’L is to cut the weasan’
O’ sneaks thet dunno till they’re told wut is an’ wut ain’t Treason,-
Long ’z ye give out commissions to a lot o’ peddlin’ drones
Thet trade in whiskey with their men an’ skin ’em to their bones,—
Long ’z ye sift out “safe” canderdates thet no one ain’t afeared on
Coz they’re so thund’rin’ eminent for bein’ never heard on,
An’ hain’t no record, ez it’s called, for folks to pick a hole in,
Ez ef it hurt a man to hev a body with a soul in,
An’ it wuz ostenstashun to be showm’ on’t about,
When half his feller-citizens contrive to do without,—