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An' Washinton hed hed the thing laid fairly to his door,

Nor darsn't say 't worn't his'n, much ez sixty year afore,)

But 't aint no matter ez to thet; wen I wuz nomer


"T worn't natur but wut I should feel consid❜able elated,

An' wile the hooraw o' the thing wuz kind o' noo an' fresh,

I thought our ticket would ha' caird the country with a resh.

Sence I've come hum, though, an' looked round, I think I seem to find

Strong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to make me change my mind;

It's clear to any one whose brain aint fur gone in a phthisis,

Thet hail Columby's happy land is goin' thru a crisis,

An''t would n't noways du to hev the people's mind distracted

By bein' all to once by sev'ral pop'lar names attackted;

"T would save holl haycartloads o' fuss an' three four months o' jaw,

Ef some illustrous paytriot should back out an' withdraw;

So, ez I aint a crooked stick, jest like -like ole (I


I dunno ez I know his name) —I'll go back to my plough.

Wenever an Amerikin distinguished politishin Begins to try et wut they call definin' his posishin, Wal, I, fer one, feel sure he aint gut nothin' to define;

It's so nine cases out o' ten, but jest that tenth is mine;

An' 't aint no more 'n is proper 'n' right in sech a sitooation

To hint the course you think 'll be the savin' o' the nation;

To funk right out o' p'lit'cal strife aint thought to be the thing,

Without you deacon off the toon you want your folks should sing;

So I edvise the noomrous friends thet's in one boat with me

To jest up killick, jam right down their hellum hard alee,

Haul the sheets taut, an', layin' out upon the Suthun tack,

Make fer the safest port they can, wich, I think, is Ole Zack.

Next thing you'll want to know, I spose, wut argimunts I seem

To see thet makes me think this ere 'll be the strongest team;

Fust place, I've ben consid❜ble round in bar-rooms an' saloons

Agetherin' public sentiment, 'mongst Demmercrats and Coons,

An' 'taint ve'y offen thet I meet a chap but wut goes in

Fer Rough an' Ready, fair an' square, hufs, taller, horns, an' skin;

I don't deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez I could


I did n't like at fust the Pheladelphy nomernee:
I could ha' pinted to a man thet wuz, I guess, a peg
Higher than him, a soger, tu, an' with a wooden


But every day with more an' more o' Taylor zeal I'm burnin',

Seein' wich way the tide thet sets to office is aturnin';

Wy, into Bellers's we notched the votes down on three sticks,

"Twuz Birdofredum one, Cass aught, an' Taylor twenty-six,

An' bein' the on'y canderdate thet wuz upon the


They said 't wuz no more 'n right thet I should pay the drinks all round;

Ef I'd expected sech a trick, I would n't ha' cut my foot

By goin' an' votin' fer myself like a consumed coot;

It did n't make no deff'rence, though; I wish I may be cust,

Ef Bellers wuz n't slim enough to say he would n't trust!

Another pint thet influences the minds o' sober jedges

Is thet the Gin'ral hez n't gut tied hand an' foot with pledges;

He hez n't told ye wut he is, an' so there aint no knowin'

But wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin';

This, at the on'y spot thet pinched, the shoe directly eases,

Coz every one is free to 'xpect percisely wut he pleases:

I want free-trade; you don't; the Gin'ral is n't bound to neither ;

I vote my way; you, yourn; an' both air sooted to a T there.

Ole Rough an' Ready, tu, 's a Wig, but without bein' ultry;

He's like a holsome hayin' day, thet 's warm, but is n't sultry;

He's jest wut I should call myself, a kin' o' scratch ez 't ware,

Thet aint exacly all a wig nor wholly your own hair;

I've ben a Wig three weeks myself, jest o' this mod❜rate sort,

An' don't find them an' Demmercrats so defferent ez I thought;

They both act pooty much alike, an' push an'
an' cus;
They're like two pickpockets in league fer Uncle
Samwell's pus;


Each takes a side, an' then they squeeze the ole man in between 'em,

Turn all his pockets wrong side out an' quick ez lightnin' clean 'em ;

To nary one on 'em I'd trust a secon'-handed rail No furder off 'an I could sling a bullock by the tail.

Webster sot matters right in thet air Mashfiel❜ speech o' his'n ;—

"Taylor," sez he, "aint nary ways the one thet I'd a chizzen,

Nor he aint fittin' fer the place, an' like ez not he aint

No more'n a tough ole bullethead, an' no gret of a saint;

But then," sez he, "obsarve my pint, he's jest ez good to vote fer

Ez though the greasin' on him worn't a thing to hire Choate fer;

Aint it ez easy done to drop a ballot in a box

Fer one ez 't is fer t'other, fer the bull-dog ez the fox?"

It takes a mind like Dannel's, fact, ez big ez all ou' doors,

To find out thet it looks like rain arter it fairly


I 'gree with him, it aint so dreffle troublesome to


Fer Taylor arter all, it's jest to go an' change your coat;

Wen he's once greased, you'll swaller him an' never know on 't, scurce,

Unless he scratches, goin' down, with them 'ere Gin'ral's spurs.

I've ben a votin' Demmercrat, ez reg'lar as a clock,

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