Guvener B. is a sensible man;
He stays to his home an’ looks arter his folks;
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,
An’ into nobody’s tater-patch pokes;—
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?
We can’t never choose him o’ course,—thet’s flat;
Guess we shall hev to come round, (don’t you?)
An’ go in fer thunder an’ guns, an’ all that;
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener
Gincral C. is a dreffle smart man:
He’s ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—
He’s been true to one party—an’ thet is himself;—
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;
He don’t vally principle more ‘n an old cud;
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,
But glory an’ gunpowder, plunder an’ blood?
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
We were gittin’ on nicely up here to our village,
With good old idees o’ wut’s right an’ wut aint
We kind o’ thought Christ went agin war an’ pillage,
An’ thet eppyletts worn’t the best mark of a saint,
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez this kind o’ thing’s an exploded idee.
The side of our country must oilers be took,
An’ Presidunt Polk’ you know he is our country.
An’ the angel thet writes all our sins in a book
Puts the debit to him, an’ to us the per contry
An’ John P.
Robinson he
Sez this is his view o’ the thing to a T.
Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;
Sez they’re nothin’ on airth but jest fee, faw, fum:
An’ thet all this big talk of our destinies
Is half on it ign’ance, an’ t’ other half rum,
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez it aint no seek thing; an’, of course, so must we.
Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life
Thet th’ Apostles rigged out in their swaller-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 everthin’ down in Judee.
Wal, it’s a marcy we’ve gut folks to tell us
The rights an’ the wrongs o’ these matters,
I vow, God sends country lawyers, an’ other wise fellers
To start the world’s team wen it gits in a Slough;
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez the world ‘ll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!
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