I 've cum 2 a conclooshen. I 'm satisfide that
Pennsilwany, Ohio, and Injeany hev gone for
Ablishn. I seed it in a daily paper. Therefore,
I direct that every church in my dyoceese be
draped in mournin, (the same we used when we
heerd uv Atlanta will anser,) and that the follerin
sam uv angish be chantid at every servis, until we
git the returns from Noo Gersey.

Ohio! Pensilwany! Injeany!

Pennsilwany is cussid, Ohio is cusseder, but Injeany
is cussidest.

[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]

Weep, O my people, for lo! the hind sites is
knoct off us!

Gnash yer teeth, for the staits we counted on
the most hev gone the wust agin us.

Tare yer hair, for Voorhees is beet.

Throw ashes on yer hed, for little sam cox is
gone up.

Array yerself in shoddy, for we 're all gone up.

Ef sich is dun in the green tree, wat will it be
in the dry.

I am a fountain uv lamentations—they run
from me ez doth the water from the springs.

Can we look 2 the South for comfort? Nay,
verily.

For Atlanta is gone, and Lee rageth in vain,
and Early is chawd up eggreejusly.

And Linkin, and Grant, and Sherman, and Sheridan
are laffin with much laffter—they feel good.

But their mirth is our wo, their meat is our
pizen.

Can we look to the North? Not any; for that is
a Sahara Desert uv Ablishnism, with nary a oasis.

Wher is the post-offisis? Wher is the collekterships,
and wher the tother places uv profit?
They are not for us.

To the East we stretch our hands, and Maine
ansers, “'ror for Linkin!”

[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]

To the West we turn, and Injeany pops it to
us to the tune uv 30,000.

We bot revolvers in that Stait, and lo! we
committid sooicide with em.

We are a dove, a peece dove, shoved out uv the
political ark.

And the deluge uv Ablishnism rageth wildly,
and shows no sign uv subsidin.

And we air weery, but kin find no place to rest
our foot.

Bestir thyself, O Lee! if yoo wood save us in
November.

On yoo we bet our pile; yoo are our anker and
our cheefest trust.

We preech in vane that the war is a faleyoor,
while yoo air bein whipped once or twice per day.

Be valiant, for gold is goin down, and goods is
goin with it, and the Ablishnists laff and the peeple
is content.

Whale Grant jist wunst, and give us wun more
chanse.

Lift us out uv the pit in2 wich we hev fallen—
giv us solid ground to stand on.

Then will our wailins be turned to joy, and our
lamentations to songs uv gladnis.

p631-237

Previous section

Next section