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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 waz nomer

nated, '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 at

tackted; 'T would save holl haycartloads o' fuss an' three

four months o' jaw, Ef some illustrous paytriot should back out an'

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 argi

munts 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' 't aint 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

leg ; 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, 'T wuz Birdofredum one, Cass aught, an' Taylor

twenty-six, An' bein' the on'y canderdate thet wuz upon the

ground, 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


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 di

rectly 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'

scrouge 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


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

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

vote 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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