The Moniment

I say, ole boy, it ain't the Glorious Fourth: You'd oughto larned 'fore this wut talk wuz worth. It ain't our nose thet gits put out o' jint; It's England thet gives up her dearest pint. We've gut, I tell ye now, enough to du In our own fem'ly fight, afore we're thru. I hoped, las' spring, jest arter Sumter's shame, When every flag-staff flapped its tethered flame, An' all the people, startled from their doubt, Come must'rin' to the flag with sech a shout,-- I hoped to see things settled 'fore this fall, The Rebbles licked, Jeff Davis hanged, an' all; Then come Bull Run, an' sence then I've ben waitin' Like boys in Jennooary thaw for skatin', Nothin' to du but watch my shadder's trace Swing, like a ship at anchor, roun' my base, With daylight's flood an' ebb: it's gittin' slow, An' I 'most think we'd better let 'em go. I tell ye wut, this war's a-goin' to cost--