never thought I’d live to see
A Yankee I could like:
I learned they were the enemy
From since I was a tike;
I’ve heard them called some proper names,
Most, worse than plain old “damn;”
I, too, have spewed some verbal flames,
Good Rebel that I am.
Then there appeared a Swope named Ken,
With Betty Whats-Her-Face;
To seek their fame and fortune in
This gracious Southern place.
I thought at first they both were spies,
Sent down from Yankee land,
Dressed in elaborate disguise
Of manners nice and grand.
Or carpetbaggers, at the least,
The lowest creatures known,
And soon we Rebels would be fleeced
Of our grits and corn pone.
I stashed my Confederate bills
And chitlin’ recipes
Down in a bed of daffodils
And hid my goober peas.
But as the months turned into years,
They soon were part of us
And charmed away our dreads and fears
In ways that were A-plus;
They matched our hospitality
And gave us smile for smile,
Although their speech, we all agree,
Was not in Southern style
A Yankee brogue is hard to change
Into a Southern drawl
If you desire to hear words strange,
Get them to say “You all.”
We’re teaching them to stand up when
Our flag is on parade,
And how to stiffen up their chin
When good old Dixie’s played.
Pennsylvania’s loss is our gain,
We hope it stays that way
As they among our midst remain
Forever and a day.
Although the North is culture poor.
I think there’s still some hope;
They only need a billion more
Like Ken and Betty Swope.
J. G. Braddock Sr.