Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The Pious Editor’s Creed
By James Russell Lowell (1819–1891)I
Ez fur away ez Payris is;
I love to see her stick her claws
In them infarnal Phayrisees;
It’s wal enough agin a king
To dror resolves an’ triggers,—
But libbaty’s a kind o’ thing
Thet don’t agree with niggers.
A tax on teas an’ coffees,
Thet nothin’ aint extravygunt,—
Purvidin’ I’m in office;
Fer I hev loved my country sence
My eye-teeth filled their sockets,
An’ Uncle Sam I reverence,
Partic’larly his pockets.
O’ levyin’ the taxes,
Ez long ez, like a lumberman,
I git jes wut I axes;
I go free-trade thru thick an’ thin,
Because it kind o’ rouses
The folks to vote,—an’ keeps us in
Our quiet custom-houses.
To sen’ out furrin missions,
Thet is, on sartin understood
An’ orthydox conditions;—
I mean nine thousan’ dolls. per ann.,
Nine thousan’ more fer outfit,
An’ me to recommend a man
The place ’ould jest about fit.
O’ prayin’ an’ convartin’;
The bread comes back in many days,
An’ buttered, tu, fer sartin;
I mean in preyin’ till one busts
On wut the party chooses,
An’ in convartin’ public trusts
To very privit uses.
Fer ’lectioneers to spout on;
The people’s ollers soft enough
To make hard money out on;
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,
An’ gives a good-sized junk to all,—
I don’t care how hard money is,
Ez long ez mine’s paid punctooal.
In the great Press’s freedom,
To pint the people to the goal
An’ in the traces lend ’em;
Palsied the arm thet forges yokes
At my fat contracts squintin’,
An’ withered be the nose that pokes
Inter the gov’ment printin’!
Wut’s his’n unto Cæsar,
Fer it’s by him I move an’ live,
Frum him my bread an’ cheese air;
I du believe thet all o’ me
Doth bear his superscription,—
Will, conscience, honor, honesty,
An’ things o’ thet description.
To him thet hez the grantin’
O’ jobs,—in everythin’ thet pays,
But most of all in C
This doth my cup with marcies fill,
This lays all thought o’ sin to rest,—
I don’t believe in princerple,
But O, I du in interest.
Or thet, ez it may happen
One way or t’other hendiest is
To ketch the people nappin’;
It aint by princerples nor men
My preudunt course is steadied,—
I scent wich pays the best, an’ then
Go into it baldheaded.
Comes nat’ral to a Presidunt,
Let ’lone the rowdedow it saves
To hev a wal-broke precedunt;
Fer any office, small or gret,
I couldn’t ax with no face,
Without I’d ben, thru dry an’ wet,
Th’ unrizzest kind o’ doughface.
’ll keep the people in blindness,—
Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness,
Thet bombshells, grape, an’ powder ’n’ ball
Air good-will’s strongest magnets,
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets.
In Humbug generally,
Fer it’s a thing thet I perceive
To hev a solid vally;
This heth my faithful shepherd ben,
In pasturs sweet heth led me,
An’ this’ll keep the people green
To feed ez they hev fed me.