One day from his accustom'd round I miss'd him Some not content with Alabama Row The wives go fast-the gouty men so slow Had I enough of time or letter paper I could extend far more these trifling sketches, But time is passing like the mountain vapor, And I'm the veriest wretch, of all these wretches. The ball room is the scene of many a caper, The waltz from foreign lands the devil fetches, These lines are strictly confidential, mind ye, By "smacking calfskin" in a manner solemn, In some brief space, I mean to pass you by, A spectre still, and Springs no more explore; Yes I will hie me home, content to die"Not poppy nor mandragora" can cure, *The facetious Nicklin enjoins all bachelors to stop in Alaba ma Row, but married men go on to Paradise, which is exclusively devoted to all persons in "a state of happy duplicity." 1 Or quell the fiends within my breast that lie, Perchance, my health may smile on me no moreAye-there they are the blue, the dismal devils! My lake of brimstone is their place of revels. I make no doubt, if we could trace these fountains Of that most dark and diabolic plot, When some curs'd spirits sought to storm all heaven, And thence, ten million fathoms down, were driven. ELECTION DAY, A Parody on the Sleet. To-day, to-day's election day! the day to hold the polls, You'll find assembled on the ground a heap of jovial souls; The folks are dress'd all in their best, the candidates are there And jackasses are braying loud, and stallions neigh and rear. Each nag and many a noble horse unto the fence is hung And many a gall'd and sorry jade whose "withers have been wrung; 99 The bobtail'd and the long tail'd and the nick tail'd too behold, And here and there the constable takes one out to be sold. The blood-red bay and sorrel see, and old Cornplanter's breed, Pale as the steed that Death was on, as in St. John we read; Here's ev'ry horse of ev'ry kind, the lame, the halt, the blind, And ev'ry man may choose him one as it may suit his mind. Old Polly in Virginia cloth, with gingerbread, looks gay With all her four-pence-ha'-pennies, how rich is her display! With cake and beer her table groans-it looks so neat and sweet, It tempts the careless passer by, to stop, and drink, and eat. Old Honeypod! thou favor'd tree! fast by our tavern door, Long didst thou shade the roaring lads, the men who lived of yore But great as our good fathers were, of whom we're justly proud, You never shaded yet such lads, as yonder motley crowd. The tavern stands with open porch, and bar-room smelling strong Of whiskey, where the sov'reigns take "the strong pull and the long," And now and then some broken glass comes shivering to the ground, They're getting high-I know it well, by that symbolic sound. Some bully big, some Irishman, "from Ireland all the way," Spreads out his pond'rous arms and fists, and dares you to the fray; And as the bull shakes off the curs, that bark with might and main, So shakes his weak assailants off, some great O'Shanoughshane. But time would fail to tell of all, that vast assembled host, Election days can show to you, and what each man they cost The hiccup and the staggering gait!-how eloquent those signs! The bloody nose! the eye gouged out! "expunged by blacken'd lines." Ye despots of the earth come here, ye men of thousand thrones! Come down awhile and look upon our sore and broken bones Ye queens, no air must blow upon, what volumes that man speaks! Who's got a murd'rous blow upon his ruddy swollen cheeks! 'Tis Liberty he doats upon, no charms for him have crowns, Unless they be the broken ones o'er which his stick resounds Then cast your baubles vile away, and bow as sure you ought, To him who hath the glorious fight, of rough and tumble fought. Yet this loud tumult soon must end, and mark me, 'tis well known, That by the fate of human things, each king must quit his throne Oh cling not to your grandeur then-its penalties-its pains But free your wretched serfs and slaves, and knock off all their chains. What though the night so soon must stop the tongues that loudly bawl, The law will make them wag again-the law, the lord of all Election days must come again, in each revolving year, And then will come the gingerbread, the whiskey, and the beer, The sun has set behind the hills-the polls are closed, away, My friend is dropp'd and tears are shed, our foes have won the day I too could shed some tears, alas! and dash to earth my wig, But crying does no good you see—we'll take a parting swig. THE DISCARDED. Imitation of Byron's Ode to Napoleon. Old man! but yesterday, gay Hope Since he, in old Ægean deep, Nor man, nor boy, hath felt so cheap. Thou fool! of weak and simple mind, Thou must have lost thine eyes; |