You’ll fin’ thet human natur, South, ain’t wholesome more ’n skin-deep,
An’ once’t a darkie’s took with it, he wun’t be wuth his keep.”
“How shell I git it, Ma’am?” sez I. “Attend the nex’ camp-meetin’,”
Sez she, “an’ it’ll come to ye ez cheap ez onbleached sheetin’.”
Wal, so I went along an’ hearn most an impressive sarmon
About besprinklin’ Afriky with fourth-proof dew o’ Harmon:
He did n’ put no weaknin’ in, but gin it tu us hot,
’Z ef he an’ Satan’d ben two bulls in one five-acre lot:
I don’t purtend to foller him, but give ye jes’ the heads;
For pulpit ellerkence, you know, ’most ollers kin’ o’ spreads.