Classic Poem

A century or so ago,
When we was young an' skittish,
We started out to let folks know
That we could tan the British;
From Bunker Hill ter Southern sile,
And on the ragin' water,
We warmed 'em in sich hearty style,
They quickly begged fur quarter.

Waal, ever sence them early days
When we was young an' skittish,
We Yanks hev been disposed to raise
Ther devil with ther British;
Thar's nary game they kin suggest
But thet we Yankees larn 'em
That we are cuter than the best
Of all their lords—goll darn 'em!

With our Kintucky colts we 've beat
Their stables highfalutin;
Their sportin' men hev met defeat
At cricket and at shootin';
Our pugilists, with skill an' ease,
Hev stopped all furrin blowin';
Our oarsmen on the lakes an' seas
Hev beat 'em all a-rowin'!

An' now, ter save that silver cup
From England's proud “Genesta,”
The Yankee folks have kunjured up
A skimmin' dish ter best 'er.
Thar ain't no ship thet swims the sea
Or sails the briny ocean—
No matter what her flag may be—
Kin beat a Yankee notion!

But what o' thet? It 's all in fun,
And thar won't be no squealin';
Fur Yank an' Britisher is one
In language, blud, an' feelin'!
An' though the times we've played 'em smart
Are numbered by the dozens,
The Yankee feels, down in his heart,
“God bless our British cousins!”