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"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.
Your merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees;
At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color;
You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,"
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—

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,
An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head,
An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em,
'll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned,"
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-

"Yes, the North," sez Colquitt,
"Ef we Southeners all quit,

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;-
"Yes," sez Johnson, "in France.

They're beginnin' to dance
Beelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he.

'The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery,
Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest
Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery
Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest,"
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--
"Oh," sez Westcott o' Florida,
"Wut treason is horrider

Than our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he.

"It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints
Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled;
We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints,
Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth sha'n't be spiled,"
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-

"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
His Lordship's carriage rolls;
Respect to greatness-when it shines
To cheer our darkened souls.
Get off the step, you ragged boys!
Policeman, where's your staff?
This is a sight to check with awe
The most irreverent laugh.
Chapeau bas!
Chapeau bas!

Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!

Stand further back! we'll see him well;
Wait till they lift him out:

It takes some time; his Lordship's old,
And suffers from the gout.

Now look! he owns a castled park
For every finger thin;

He has more sterling pounds a day
Than wrinkles in his skin.

The founder of his race was son
To a king's cousin, rich;

(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
By aiding France's cause.

The second marquis, of the stole
Was groom to the second James;
He all but caught that recreant king
When flying o'er the Thames.
Devotion rare! by Orange Will
With a Scotch county paid;
He gained one more-in Ireland-when
Charles Edward he betrayed.

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
Some scores, whose honest pates
The self-same type present, upon
The Carabas estates!

Look at his skin-at four-score years
How fresh it gleams and fair:
He never tasted ill-dressed food,

Or breathed in tainted air.

The noble blood glows through his veins
Still, with a healthful pink;

His brow scarce wrinkled!-Brows keep so
That have not got to think.

His hand 's ungloved!-it shakes, 'tis true,
But mark its tiny size,

(High birth's true sign) and shape, as on
The lackey's arm it lies.

That hand ne'er penned a useful line,
Ne'er worked a deed of fame,
Save slaying one, whose sister he—

Its owner-brought to shame.

They've got him in.-he's gone to vote
Your rights and mine away;
Perchance our lives, should men be scarce,

To fight his cause for pay.

We are his slaves! he owns our lands,

Our woods, our seas, and skies;
He'd have us shot like vicious dogs,

Should we in murmuring rise!

Chapeau bas!

Chapeau bas!

Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!

1845

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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,
His Honor, proudly free, severely merry,
Conceived it would be vastly fine

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,
Instead of teaching you to sew!
Pray, why did not your father make
A saddler, sir, of you?"

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]

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