John Smith, U.S.A. | Page 2

bald, his hair was of
chameleon hue; Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde
and a brunette-- Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet;

I see you yet, and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem To see you in
composite, or as in a waking dream,
Which are you, John? I'd like to
know, that I might weave a rhyme Appropriate to your character, your
politics and clime;
So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"--your
pedigree confess In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I
guess";
Let fall your tell-tale dialect, that instantly I may
Identify
my countryman, "John Smith, U.S.A."
It's like as not you are the John that lived a spell ago
Down East,
where codfish, beans 'nd bona-fide school-marms grow; Where the dear
old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills And where the
robin hops about the cherry boughs and trills; Where Hubbard squash
'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size, And everything is orthodox
from preachers down to pies;
Where the red-wing blackbirds swing
'nd call beside the pickril pond, And the crows air cawin' in the pines
uv the pasture lot beyond; Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because
their money's lent Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per
cent; Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir,
Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire: Where we had
to go to meetin' at least three times a week, And our mothers learnt us
good religious Dr. Watts to speak, And where our grandmas sleep their
sleep--God rest their souls, I say! And God bless yours, ef you're that
John, "John Smith, U.S.A."

Or, mebbe, Colonel Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know
In the
country whar the finest democrats 'nd horses grow; Whar the ladies are
all beautiful an' whar the crap of cawn Is utilized for Bourbon and true
dawters are bawn;
You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet
on Proctor Knott-- Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of
shot; And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true
As yo'
all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue;
Whar a niggah with a
ballot is the signal fo' a fight,
Whar a yaller dawg pursues the coon
throughout the bammy night; Whar blooms the furtive 'possum--pride
an' glory of the South-- And Aunty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts
within yo' mouth! Whar, all night long, the mockin'-birds are warblin'
in the trees And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing
breeze, Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay--
Hyar's
lookin' at yo', Colonel "John Smith, U.S.A."!
Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West-- That part
of our republic I shall always love the best?
Wuz you him that went
prospectin' in the spring of sixty-nine In the Red Hoss mountain
country for the Gosh-All-Hemlock Mine? Oh, how I'd like to clasp
your hand an' set down by your side And talk about the good old days
beyond the big divide;
Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the
Rocky Mountain goat, Of the conversazzhyony 'nd of Casey's
tabble-dote,
And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long
ago (Three-Fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom and Parson Jim, you know)!
Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high
again,
And we'd see the snow-top mountain like we used to see 'em
then; The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro,
And we'd hear the pines a-singing' in the ragged gulch below; And the
mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way, Ez if it waited
for a child to jine it in its play.
You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall, And,
really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all! For when a man
sojourns abroad awhile (as I have done)
He likes to think of all the
folks he left at home as one-- And so they are! For well you know

there's nothing in a name--- Our Browns, our Joneses and our Smiths
are happily the same; All represent the spirit of the land across the sea,

All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free! Whether
John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East-- So long
as he's American, it mattereth not the least;
Whether his crest be
badger, bear, palmetto, sword or pine, He is the glory of the stars that
with the stripes combine! Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to
be known, Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone!

And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day Upon the
register at Lowe's, "John