alhoun, sez he;--
'Thet's ez plain,' sez Cass, 30
'Ez thet some one's an ass,
It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon,' sez he.

'Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression,
But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth,
Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression)
To make cussed free with the rights o' the North,'
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--
'Yes,' sez Davis o' Miss.,
'The perfection o' bliss
Is in skinnin' thet same old coon,' sez he. 40

'Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion,
It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe;
Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!)
Wich of our onnable body 'd be safe?'
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--
Sez Mister Hannegan,
Afore he began agin,
'Thet exception is quite oppertoon,' sez he.

'Gennle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar,
_Your_ merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees, 50
At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color;
You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,'
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--
Sez Mister Jarnagin,
'They wun't hev to larn agin,
They all on 'em know the old toon,' sez he.

'The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin,'
North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance;
No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin,
But they _du_ sell themselves, ef they git a good chance,' 60
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--
Sez Atherton here,
'This is gittin' severe,
I wish I could dive like a loon,' sez he.

'It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom,
An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head,
An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em,
'll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned,'
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--
'Yes, the North,' sez Colquitt, 70
'Ef we Southeners all quit,
Would go down like a busted balloon,' sez he.

'Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin'
In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine,
All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin,
An' the sankylots drorin' an' drinkin' their wine,'
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--
'Yes,' sez Johnson, 'in France
They're beginnin' to dance
Beelzebub's own rigadoon,' sez he. 80

'The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery,
Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest
Not to welcome