American War Ballads and Lyrics, Volume 2 (of 2) / A Collection of the Songs and Ballads of the Colonial Wars, the Revolutions, the War of 1812-15, the War with Mexico and the Civil War

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[This poem is a part of the second series of “The Bigelow Papers,” a work wholly unmatched in the literature of humor, that has an earnest purpose and well matured thought for its sources of inspiration. The poem was called forth by what is known as “the Trent affair.” Captain Wilkes, commanding the United States man-of-war, San Jacinto, boarded the British mail steamer Trent on the 8th of November, 1861, and took from her the Confederate commissioners Mason and Slidell. Great Britain resented the act, and for a time there was serious apprehension of war between that country and the United States; but as the seizure of the commissioners on board a neutral vessel was deemed to be an act in violation of international law, the Government at Washington, after inquiry into the facts, surrendered the prisoners. The version of the poem here given is a correct one, taken from the collected edition of Mr. Lowell’s poems. An abridged and otherwise imperfect version is given in many collections.—Editor.]

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JONATHAN TO JOHN.

It don’t seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John,— Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess We know it now,” sez he, “The Lion’s paw is all the law, Accordin’ to J. B., Thet’s fit for you an’ me!”

You wonder why we’re hot, John? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an’ our sons: Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess There’s human blood,” sez he, “By fits an’ starts, in Yankee hearts, Though ’t may surprise J. B. More ’n it would you an’ me.”

Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front parlor stairs, Would it just meet your views, John, To wait an’ sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, I on’y guess,” sez he, “Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell, ’Twould kind o’ rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win—ditto tails? “J. B.” was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess (I’m good at thet),” sez he, “Thet sauce for goose ain’t jest the juice For ganders with J. B., No more’n with you or me!”

When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn’t stop for fuss,— Brittany’s trident prongs, John, Was good ’nough law for us. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, Though physic’s good,” sez he, “It doesn’t foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed ‘J. B.’ Put up by you an’ me.”

We own the ocean, tu, John, You mus’ n’ take it hard, Ef we can’t think with you, John, It’s just your own back yard, Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess Ef thet’s his claim,” sez he, “The fencin’ stuff’ll cost enough To bust up friend J. B. Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honor when it meant You didn’t care a fig, John, But jest for ten per cent? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess He’s like the rest,” sez he; “When all is done, it’s number one Thet’s nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez t’ you an’ me!”

We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought ’twas right; It warn’t your bullyin’ clack, John, Provokin’ us to fight. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess We’ve a hard row,” sez he, “To hoe just now; but thet, somehow, May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

We ain’t so weak an’ poor, John, With twenty million people, An’ close to every door, John, A school house an’ a steeple. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess It is a fact,” sez he, “The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J. B., Ez much ez you or me!”

Our folks believe in Law, John; An’ it’s fer her sake, now, They’ve left the axe an’ saw, John, The anvil an’ the plow. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, Ef ’t warn’t fer law,” sez he, “There ’d be one shindy from here to Indy; An’ thet don’t suit J. B. (When ’t ain’t ’twixt you an’ me!)”

We know we ’ve got a cause, John, Thet ’s honest, just, an’ true; We thought ’t would win applause, John, Ef nowhere else, from you, Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess His love of right,” sez he, “Hangs by a rotten fibre o’ cotton; There ’s natur’ in J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

The South says, “Poor folks down!” John, An’ “All men up!” say we,— White, yaller, black, an’ brown, John; Now which is your idee? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess John preaches wal,” sez he; “But, sermon thru, an’ come to du, Why there’s the old J. B. A-crowdin’ you an’ me!”

Shall it be love or hate, John? It’s you thet ’s to decide; Ain’t your bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world’s beside? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess Wise men fergive,” sez he, “But not ferget; an’ some time yet Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an’ understand, John, The wuth o’ bein’ free. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess God’s price is high,” sez he; “But nothin’ else than wut he sells Wears long, an’ thet J. B. May larn, like you an’ me!”

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