So _we_'re all right, an' I, fer one,
Don't think our cause'll lose in vally
By rammin' Scriptur' in our gun,
An' gittin' Natur' fer an ally:
Thank God, say I, fer even a plan
To lift one human bein's level,
Give one more chance to make a man,
Or, anyhow, to spile a devil!
Not thet I'm one thet much expec'
Millennium by express to-morrer;
They _will_ miscarry,--I rec'lec'
Tu many on 'em, to my sorrer:
Men ain't made angels in a day,
No matter how you mould an' labor 'em,--
Nor 'riginal ones, I guess, don't stay
With Abe so of'n ez with Abraham,
The'ry thinks Fact a pooty thing,
An' wants the banns read right ensuin';
But Fact wun't noways wear the ring
'Thout years o' settin' up an' wooin':
But, arter all, Time's dial-plate
Marks cent'ries with the minute-finger,
An' Good can't never come tu late,
Though it doos seem to try an' linger.
An' come wut will, I think it's grand
Abe's gut his will et last bloom-furnaced
In trial-flames till it'11 stand
The strain o' bein' in deadly earnest:
Thet's wut we want,--we want to know
The folks on our side hez the bravery
To b'lieve ez hard, come weal, come woe,
In Freedom ez Jeff doos in Slavery.
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