ain’t no resk but wut the lor’ll be willin’;
  No metter wut the guv’ment is, ez nigh ez I can hit it,
  A lickin’s constitooshunal, pervidin’ We don’t git it. 
  Jeff don’t stan’ dilly-dallyin’, afore he takes a fort,
  (With no one in,) to git the leave o’ the nex’ Soopreme Court,
  Nor don’t want forty-’leven ‘weeks o’ jawin’ an’ expoundin’
  To prove a nigger hez a right to save him, ef he’s drowndin’;
  Whereas ole Abram’d sink afore he’d let a darkie boost him,
  Ef Taney shouldn’t come along an’ hedn’t interdooced him. 
  It ain’t your twenty millions thet’ll ever block Jeff’s game,
  But one Man thet wun’t let ’em jog jest ez he’s takin’ aim: 
  Your numbers they may strengthen ye or weaken ye, ez ’t heppens
  They’re willin’ to be helpin.’ hands or wuss’n-nothin’ cap’ns.

  I’ve chose my side, an’ ’t ain’t no odds ef I wuz drawed with magnets,
  Or ef I thought it prudenter to jine the nighes’ bagnets;
  I’ve made my ch’ice, an’ ciphered out, from all I see an’ heard,
  Th’ ole Constitooshun never’d git her decks for action cleared,
  Long ’z you elect for Congressmen poor shotes thet want to go
  Coz they can’t seem to git their grub no otherways than so,
  An’ let your bes’ men stay to home coz they wun’t show ez talkers,
  Nor can’t be hired to fool ye an’ sof’-soap ye at a caucus,—­
  Long ’z ye set by Rotashun more ’n ye do by folks’s merits,
  Ez though experance thriv by change o’ sile, like corn an’ kerrits,—­
  Long ‘z you allow a critter’s “claims” coz, spite o’ shoves an’ tippins,
  He’s kep’ his private pan jest where’t would ketch mos’ public
      drippins,—­
  Long ‘z A.’ll turn tu an’ grin’ B.’s exe, ef B.’ll help him grin’ hisn,
  (An’ thet’s the main idee by which your leadin’ men hev risen,)—­
  Long ‘z you let ary exe be groun’; ’less ‘L is to cut the weasan’
  O’ sneaks thet dunno till they’re told wut is an’ wut ain’t Treason,-
  Long ‘z ye give out commissions to a lot o’ peddlin’ drones
  Thet trade in whiskey with their men an’ skin ’em to their bones,—­
  Long ’z ye sift out “safe” canderdates thet no one ain’t afeared on
  Coz they’re so thund’rin’ eminent for bein’ never heard on,
  An’ hain’t no record, ez it’s called, for folks to pick a hole in,
  Ez ef it hurt a man to hev a body with a soul in,
  An’ it wuz ostenstashun to be showm’ on’t about,
  When half his feller-citizens contrive to do without,—­
  Long ’z you suppose your votes can turn biled kebbage into brain,
  An’ ary man thet’s pop’lar’s fit to drive a lightnin’-train,—­
  Long ’z you believe democracy means I’m ez good ez you be,
  An’ thet a feller from the ranks can’t be a knave or booby,—­
  Long ‘z Congress seems purvided, like yer street-cars an’ yer ’busses,
  With oilers room for jes’ one more o’ your spiled-in-bakin’ cusses,
  Dough’thout the emptins of a soul,