Cov’nants o’ works go ’ginst my grain, but down here I’ve found out
The true fus’-fem’ly A 1 plan,—here’s how it come about.
When I fus’ sot up with Miss S., sez she to me, sez she,—
“Without you git religion, Sir, the thing can’t never be;
Nut but wut I respeck,” sez she, “your intellectle part,
But you wun’t noways du for me athout a change o’ heart:
Nothun religion works wal North, but it’s ez soft ez spruce,
Compared to ourn, for keepin’ sound,” sez she, “upon the goose;
A day’s experunce’d prove to ye, ez easy ’z pull a trigger,
It takes the Southun pint o’ view to raise ten bales a nigger;