"Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion. It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chaf Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!) Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?" Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— Sez Mister Hannegan, Afore he began agin, "Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he. "Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar. Sez Mister Jarnagin, "They wun't hev to larn agin, They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he. "The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin', North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance, No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin, But they du sell themselves, ef they git a good chance," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; Sez Atherton here, "This is gittin' severe, I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he. "It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom, "Yes, the North," sez Colquitt, Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he. "Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin' In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin, An' the sankylot's drorin' an' drinkin' their wine," The Marquis of Carabas 1843 Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;- They're beginnin' to dance 'The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, Than our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he. "It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints "Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis, "It perfectly true is Thet slavery's airth's grettest boon," sez he. James Russell Lowell [1819-1891] THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS A SONG WITH A STOLEN BURDEN OFF with your hat! along the street Gloire au Marquis de Carabas! Stand further back! we'll see him well; It takes some time; his Lordship's old, Now look! he owns a castled park He has more sterling pounds a day The founder of his race was son (The mother was an oyster wench--- She perished in a ditch). His patriot worth embalmed has been In poets' loud applause: He made twelve thousand pounds a year The second marquis, of the stole He lived to see his son grow up A general famed and bold, Who fought his country's fights-and one, For half a million, sold. His son (alas! the house's shame) Frittered the name away: Diced, wenched and drank-at last got shot, Through cheating in his play! Now, see, where, focused on one head, The race's glories shine: The head gets narrow at the top, But mark the jaw-how fine! A Modest Wit Don't call it satyr-like; you'd wound Look at his skin-at four-score years Or breathed in tainted air. The noble blood glows through his veins His brow scarce wrinkled!-Brows keep so His hand 's ungloved!-it shakes, 'tis true, (High birth's true sign) and shape, as on That hand ne'er penned a useful line, Its owner-brought to shame. They've got him in.-he's gone to vote To fight his cause for pay. We are his slaves! he owns our lands, Our woods, our seas, and skies; Should we in murmuring rise! Chapeau bas! Chapeau bas! Gloire au Marquis de Carabas! 1845 A MODEST WIT A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the East Haughty, being great-purse-proud, being rich A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron's suit, An unassuming boy, in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute. This youth had sense and spirit; But yet with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit. One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, To crack a joke upon his secretary. "Young man," he said, "by what art, craft. or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood?". "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, "And in his time was reckoned good." "A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, Each parasite, then, as in duty bound. The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father's trade!" "My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low He was a gentleman, I'd have you know.” "Excuse the liberty I take," Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?" Selleck Osborn [1783-1826] |