The Palatka Daily News

THE WAIL OF THE REMOVED.
For twenty years and more I've been a post-master in Maine;
I've led a free and easy life, and got both large and stout,
I've lived on pie and cake and beans—and now,
In language plain,
I say I think it's mighty mean that Cleveland's put me out.
Indeed, I had a sinecure; the office ne'er I oped
Until a little distance off I heard the coming train,
And from the office to my home I always swiftly sloped,
When the mail had been delivered to the maidens sweet and plain.
I never did a bit of work; I used to lie around
And listen to the gossip of the matrons at the door;
My offspring took the mail bag to the station with a bound
And another, Isabella, read the "postals" o'er and o'er.
And now I think I'll have to go a living for to earn—
I'll have to work from sunrise till the twilight softly falls.
And my dinner I shall carry in a little polished urn,
And I'll labor in check-shirt and a pair of overalls.
I shall soon be fair and slender, for my fat will melt away,
And look like no great statesman with a rosy tinted nose:
In fact, I'll grow so slender that I soon shall see the day
When I'll be small enough to wear my little Andy's clothes.
No more I'll grab the mail-bag as it comes upon the fly,
No more I'll have to stand around and lick the postage-stamps;
In my old arm-chair, a dozing like a tom-cat. shortly I
Shall see one of those under handed democratic tramps.