[From the Baltimore Dispatch.]
BY CLIFTON W. TAYLEURE.
Now gader round me, darkies, de falsehoods I'll expose
Of dem dollar-loving Yankees, de nigga's greatest foes:
I arribed in Boston fust, whar freedom's loved, because
Dar dey kill deir officers, fur carryin' out de laws;
And Theodore Parker blasphemes against his God and land,
When he lifts in prayer to freedom each day his blood-stained hand,
And hears some tale of darkey woe in eb'ry southern breeze,
But Bachelder's lone widow's grief at home he neber sees.
Oh! oh! oh! Professor H. B. Stowe,
I'm sorry dat you made dat oath,
You'll neber shabe, you know.
Wid eyes dat reach to Southern fields, dey neber see de grief
Of starving whites, who at deir doors ax vainly fur relief;
While dey are crying o'er de lies ob Harri't Beecha Stowe,
Dey cannot see deir fact'ries filled wid wretchedness and woe.
And darkies dey deluded North, from masters kind and good,
Despised and shunn'd, fight wid de hogs in gutters for deir food.
True, now and den it seems as if some fugitive dey mourns--
'Tis fur de vitriol dat dey lost without producing Burns.
De poet says "'tis distance lends enchantment to de view,"
And nigga's dat de Yankees trust will find day saying true;
Who worship dollars as deir gods, make wealth their only creed,
Deir only study the slickest way each oder fur to bleed.
Oh gib to me de sunny South, de land of hearts and homes--
'Tis dere he nigga's thoughts will turn, where'er, where'er he roams:
'Tis dere we finds our kindest friends, oh dat we niggas know,
And dere we gaily sing and dance, to mock Aunt Beecha Stowe.