Daily Evening Bulletin

Henry Wadsworth, senior pere,
Of me you shall not win renown,
You thought to bag a Democrat,
To swell your little crowd in town;
On me you smiled, but unbeguiled,
I saw the snare and I retired
False hearted Union Democrat,
You are not one to be desired.
Henry Wadsworth, senior pere,
We know you well, we know your fame,
And though your trimmed to every wind,
We're going to beat you all the same;
Nor will we break for your sweet sake,
A rule we long have tackled to,
blue-hen's chicken Democrat,
Is worth a hundred such as you.
Henry Wadsworth, senior pere,
Some other fellow you must find,
For by the God of Abraham,
I'm not a hair-pin of that kind:
You sought to note if I would vote,
And my disdain is my reply:
The trilobites in your old hills,
Are not more cold to you than I.
Henry Wadsworth, senior pere,
You put strange memories in my head,
Of "halters" and of other things,
That in a certain book I read,
Oh! your sweet eyes; your low replies,
A great enchanter you may be,
But then the record on your line,
Is not the kind of bait for me.
Trust me Wadsworth, senior pere,
From yon blue sky above us bent,
Clay, the grand old Commoner.
Frowns on the paths in which you went.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
'Tis only noble to be true,
And while the lamp holds out to burn,
There yet remains a hope for you.
I know you Wadsworth, senior pere,
You pine among your halls and towers,
The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied with your blooming flowers;
You laid aside the pruning hook,
And left the shade of grand old trees;
You know so ill to deal with time,
You needs must play such pranks as these.
Henry Wadsworth, senior pere.
If time be heavy on your hands,
Are there no cattle on your hills,
Nor crops about your lands?
Go teach the boys to labor well,
To reap, to plow, to sow,
And pray Almighty God to keep
"The Union on the statu quo."