Ez to the answerin' o' questions, I 'm an off ox at bein' druv, Though I aint one thet ary test shuns 'll give our folks a helpin' shove; Kind o' promiscoous I go it Fer the holl country, an' the ground I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, Is pooty gen'ally all round.
I don't appruve o' givin' pledges; You 'd ough' to leave a feller free, An' not go knockin' out the wedges To ketch his fingers in the tree; Pledges air awfle breachy cattle Thet preudunt farmers don't turn out,-- Ez long 'z the people git their rattle, Wut is there fer 'm to grout about?
Ez to the slaves, there 's no confusion In _my_ idees consarnin' them,-- _I_ think they air an Institution, A sort of--yes, jest so,--ahem: Do _I_ own any? Of my merit On thet pint you yourself may jedge; All is, I never drink no sperit, Nor I haint never signed no pledge.
Ez to my principles, I glory In hevin' nothin' o' the sort; I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, I 'm jest a candidate, in short; Thet 's fair an' square an' parpendicler, But, ef the Public cares a fig, To hev me an' thin' in particler, Wy I 'm a kind o' peri-wig.
Ez we 're a sort o' privateerin', O' course, you know, it 's sheer an' sheer, An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' I 'll mention in _your_ privit ear; Ef you git _me_ inside the White House, Your head with ile I 'll kin' o' 'nint By gittin' _you_ inside the Light-house Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint.
An' ez the North hez took to brustlin' At bein' scrouged frum off the roost, I 'll tell ye wut 'll save all tusslin' An' give our side a harnsome boost,-- Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question I 'm RIGHT, although to speak I 'm lawth; This gives you a safe pint to rest on, An' leaves me frontin' South by North.
[And now of epistles candidatial, which are of two kinds,--namely, letters of acceptance, and letters definitive of position. Our republic, on the eve of an election, may safely enough be called a republic of letters. Epistolary composition becomes then an epidemic, which seizes one candidate after another, not seldom cutting short the thread of political life. It has come to such a pass, that a party dreads less the attacks of its opponents than a letter from its candidate. _Litera scripta manet_, and it will go hard if something bad cannot be made of it. General Harrison, it is well understood, was surrounded, during his candidacy, with the _cordon sanitaire_ of a vigilance committee. No prisoner in Spielberg was ever more cautiously deprived of writing materials. The soot was scraped carefully from the chimney-places; outposts of expert rifle-shooters rendered it sure death for any goose (who came clad in feathers) to approach within a certain limited distance of North Bend; and all domestic fowls about the premises were reduced to the condition of Plato's original man. By these precautions the General was saved. _Parva componere magnis_, I remember, that, when party-spirit once ran high among my people, upon occasion of the choice of a new deacon, I, having my preferences, yet not caring too openly to express them, made use of an innocent fraud to bring about that result which I deemed most desirable. My stratagem was no other than the throwing a copy of the Complete Letter-Writer in the way of the candidate whom I wished to defeat. He caught the infection, and addressed a short note to his constituents, in which the opposite party detected so many and so grave improprieties (he had modeled it upon the letter of a young lady accepting a proposal of marriage), that he not only lost his election, but, falling under a suspicion of Sabellianism and I know not what (the widow Endive assured me that he was a Paralipomenon, to her certain knowledge), was forced to leave the town. Thus it is that the letter killeth.