By John Hay.
I reckon I git your drift, gents-
You 'low the boy shan't stay;
This is a white man's country;
You're Dimocrats, you stay.
And whereas, and seein', and wherefore,
The times bein' all out of joint,
The nigger has got to mosey
From the limits o' Spunky P'int!
Le's reason the thing a minute;
I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat too,
Though I laid my politics out o' the way
For to keep till the war was through.
But I come back here, allowin'
To vote as I used to do,
Though it gravels me like the devil to train
Along o' sich fools as you.
Now, dog my cats of I kin see,
In all the light of the day,
What you've got to do with the question
Ef Tim shall go or stay.
And furder than that I give notice,
Ef one of you tetches the boy,
He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime
Than he'll find in Illanoy.
Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me!
You know that ungodly day
When our left struck Vicksburg Heights,
How ripped and torn and tattered we lay?
When the rest retreated I staid behind,
Fur reasons sufficient to me-
With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike,
I sprawled on that cursed place.
Lord! how the hot sun went for us,
And br'iled and blistered and burned;
How the rebel bullets whizzed round us
When a cuss in his death-grip turned!
Till along toward dusk I seen a thing
I couldn't believe for a spell:
That nigger-that Tim--was a-crawlin' to me
Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!
The rebels seen him as quick as me,
And the bullets buzzed like bees;
But he jumped for me, and shouldered me,
Though a shot brought him once to his knees;
But he staggered up, and packed me off,
With a dozen stumbles and falls,
Till safe in our lines he dropped us both,
His black hide riddled with balls.
So, my gentle gazelles, thare's my answer,
And here stays Banty Tim;
He trumped death's ace for me that day,
And I'm not goin' back on him!
You may rezoloot till the cows come home,
But of one of you tetches the boy,
He'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell,
Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!