The Pilot

POETRY

AIR—"There's nae luck about the house."

THE LAST CABINET COUNCIL.
From the Cleveland Herald.

Sly Matty's face was overcast,
His hopes began to lower,
His kitchen cabinet he called,
Besides the lawful four:
And bade them with a scolding tongue
That each should truly say,
If any chance remained for him,
On next election day.

Chorus.
For it's Boyd and Harris, Linn and Price,
And Swartwout they do say,
Have toted off the Nation's cash,
As lawful loco prey.

Then up steps Amos grim and thin,
With sick and ghastly look;
You never would have thought that he
Was scullion and chief cook;
"Now Matty dear, says he, "I'm sure
The game is up with us;
Those cursed Whigs will beat us now,
They kick up such a fuss,

Chorus.
You'd think the nation's broke,
About the outside quires and cash,
And Blair, and I, and Calhoun think
This time they do not joke."

Says Blair to Mat-Good President,
I think it is unlucky
That I must streak it back again
To teach school in Kentucky;
But go I must, for I am sure,
Our battles all are fought;
And New York's favorite son is beat,
By sober second thought.

Chorus.

Now Matty, don't get sick, I'm sure,
We may as well clear out.
And join that Loco Foco Price,
And honest Sam Swartwout."

And next says Paulding,
"I do wish
To novels I had stuck,
For writing them would ne'er have made
Of me so lame a duck.
And in your garret I will write
To quiet Kinderhook,
Another shilling book,

Chorus.
Oh dear! the times are very hard
When wheat's but fifty cents,
But I'm the man that's rich enough
If I collect my "rents."

"Come, Uncle Levi, tell us now
What think you of Whig votes?"
"Oh dear! I fear they can't be bought,
With my sub-treasury notes.
I've figured out my long reports,
Arrayed in solid column,
But where's your CASH, the Whigs cry out,
With faces long and solemn.

Chorus.
The cash is gone, and credit too,
With our Administration.
And we have ruined every man
Throughout the Yankee nation.

"Now, Poinsett, you can cheer us up,
With glad and cheerful sounds;"
"Oh no! I can't those cursed Whigs
Have treed me with bloodhounds:
We've got to quit the White House now,
As fast as we can go,
I'll take my hat, and make my bow,
For I am D. I. O

Chorus.
The spoils are gone-there's nothing left!
Of Paper, Blanks and Twine,
And every man is fortunate,
Who knows where he can dine."

"Perdition catch you all," says Mat,
"Come, Forsyth, you're true blue,
And are so versed in politics,
Can tell me what to do?"
"I wish I could, for I am sure
You'd hear it very soon,
But I will go and advise with
My friend J. C. Calhoun,

Chorus.
For he's the man to jump Jim Crow,
And prove that black is white,
He will convince you it's noonday,
When dark and pitchy night."

Now Harry Clay was passing by,
And hearing such a roar,
With hasty strides he mounted up,
And opened wide the door-
"HALLO!"says he, "what means this noise
Within this garrison?
You'd better all make tracks--here comes
The Patriot HARRISON."

Chorus.

So off they ran with nimble legs,
As fast as they could lean:
And "Granny" he took up the broom
And swept the White House clean.