WAR, James Russell Lowell
Ez fer war, I call it murder,–
There you hev it plain an’ flat;
I don’t want to go no furder
Than my Testyment fer that….
They may talk o’ Freedom’s airy
Tell they’er pupple in the face,–
It’s a grand gret cemetary
Fer the barthrights of our race;
They jest want this Californy
So’s to lug new slave-states in
To abuse ye, an’ scorn ye,
An’ to plunder ye like sin.