Volume 100 / Act 3 — "ROUGE ET NOIR!"

It may be ez you're right, JOHN, And both my hands are full; You know ez I can fight, JOHN, (I've wiped out "Sitting Bull"). Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess We see our fix," sez he. "The 'Thunderer's' paw lays down the law, Accordin' to J.B. To square it's left to me!" 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!"

Back from your Australian trip! Punch, my CHARLES, your fist must grip. You have lighted on a time When we're all chill, choke, and grime. 'Twere no marvel, O great baritone, Did you find your voice had nary tone. But there's none like you can sing "To Anthea," "The Erl-King." SCHUBERT, GOUNOD, English HATTON, Equally your Fine Art's pat on. Punch can never praise you scantly. À votre santé, good CHARLES SANTLEY!