Blood ain't so cool as ink, JOHN; Big words are easy wrote; The "coons"--well, you don't think, JOHN, I'll let 'em cut my throat. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess Ghost-dance must stop," sez he. "Suppose the 'braves' and black ex-slaves Hed b'longed to ole J.B. Insted of unto me?"
Ten art'cles in your _Times_, JOHN, Hev giv me good advice. I mind th' old Slavery crimes, JOHN. I don't need tellin' twice. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, I only guess," sez he, "Seven million blacks on his folks' backs Would kind o' rile J.B. Ez much ez it riles me!"
The Red Man,--well, I s'pose, JOHN, We'll hev to wipe _him_ aout. Sech pizonous trash ez those, JOHN, The world kin do without. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess Injuns must go," sez he. "COOPER's Red Man won't fit our plan, Though he once witched J.B. As once he fetched e'en _me_!"
The Black Man! Ah, that's wuss, JOHN. The chaps wuz right, ay _joost_, Who said the Slavery cuss, JOHN, Wud yet come home to roost. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess The problem set," sez he, "By that derned Nig. is black and big, And fairly puzzles me, Ez it wud do J.B."
Your _Times_ would right our wrongs, JOHN, --Always _wuz_ sweet on us!-- But on dilemma's prongs, JOHN, To fix me don't _you_ fuss. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Though physic's good," sez he, "It doesn't foller that he can swaller Prescriptions signed J.B. Put up by you for me!"
Thet swaggerin' black buck Nig., JOHN, Is jest a grown-up kid; Ez happy as a ---- pig, JOHN, When doin' wut he's bid. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess He's hateful when he's free. Equal with _him_, that dark-skinn'd limb? No; that will not suit _me_, More than it wud J.B.!"
Emigrate the whole lot, JOHN? Well, that's a tallish task! In Afric's centre hot, JOHN, Send 'em to breed and bask? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess _I_'d be right glad," sez he, "But--_will they go?_ 'Tain't done, you know, As easy as J.B. Wud settle it--for me!"
_Rouge_--there I see my way, JOHN. But _Noir_--thet's hard to front! It wun't be no child's play, JOHN, Seven million Nigs to shunt. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess We've a hard row," sez he, "To hoe just now, but thet, somehow, I fancy, friend J.B., Your _Times_ may leave to _me_!"
[Mr. SANTLEY, who has been long absent in Australia, reappeared at St. James's Hall on Jan. 19, and was received with great enthusiasm.]