Parson Wilbur he calls all these arguments lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest _fee, faw, fum_; An' that all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum; But John P. Robinson, he Sez it ain't no such thing; an', of course, so must we.
Parson Wilbur sez _he_ never heered in his life Thet the Apostles rigg'd out in their swallow-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P. Robinson, he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.
Wal, it's a marcy we're gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow-- God sends country lawyers an' other wise fellers To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough; For John P. Robinson, he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!
I du believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees; It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves and triggers,-- But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with niggers.
I du believe the people want A tax on teas and coffees, Thet nothin' ain't extravygunt,-- Purvidin' I'm in office; For I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets.
I du believe in _any_ plan O' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes: I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote--and keep us in Our quiet custom-houses.
I du believe it's wise an' good To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An' orthydox conditions;-- I mean nine thousan' dolls, per ann., Nine thousan' more fer outfit, An' me to recommend a man The place 'ould jest about fit.
I du believe in special ways O' prayin' an' convartin'; The bread comes back in many days, An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;-- I mean in preyin' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses.
I do believe hard coin the stuff Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; The people's ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An' gives a good-sized junk to all-- I don't care _how_ hard money is, Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.