Hold! put up your tongues! 
Within the confines of this sacred spot
Broods such a holy calm as none may break
By clash of weapons, without sacrilege.
          (Beats down their tongues with a bone.)
Madmen! what profits it?  For though you fought With such heroic skill that both survived, Yet neither should achieve the prize, for I Would wrest it from him.  Let us not contend, But friendliwise by stipulation fix A slate for mutual advantage.  Why, Having the pick and choice of seats, should we Forego them all but one?  Nay, we’ll take three, And part them so among us that to each Shall fall the fittest to his powers.  In brief,
Let us establish a Portfolio Trust.

ESTEE: 

Agreed.

DE YOUNG: 

Aye, truly, ’tis a greed—­and one
The offices imperfectly will sate,
But I’ll stand in.

SWIFT: 

Well, so ’tis understood,
As you’re the junior member of the Trust,
Politically younger and undead,
Speak, Michael:  what portfolio do you choose?

DE YOUNG: 

I’ve thought the Postal service best would serve
My interest; but since I have my pick,
I’ll take the War Department.  It is known
Throughout the world, from Market street to Pine,
(For a Chicago journal told the tale)
How in this hand I lately took my life
And marched against great Buckley, thundering
My mandate that he count the ballots fair! 
Earth heard and shrank to half her size!  Yon moon,
Which rivaled then a liver’s whiteness, paused
That night at Butchertown and daubed her face
With sheep’s blood!  Then my serried rank I drew
Back to my stronghold without loss.  To mark
My care in saving human life and limb,
The Peace Society bestowed on me
Its leather medal and the title, too,
Of Colonel.  Yes, my genius is for war.  Good land! 
I naturally dote on a brass band!

(Sings.)

O, give me a life on the tented field,
  Where the cannon roar and ring,
Where the flag floats free and the foemen yield
  And bleed as the bullets sing. 
But be it not mine to wage the fray
Where matters are ordered the other way,
  For that is a different thing.

O, give me a life in the fierce campaign—­
  Let it be the life of my foe: 
I’d rather fall upon him than the plain;
  That service I’d fain forego. 
O, a warrior’s life is fine and free,
But a warrior’s death—­ah me! ah me! 
  That’s a different thing, you know.

ESTEE: 

Some claim I might myself advance to that
Portfolio.  When Rebellion raised its head,
And you, my friends, stayed meekly in your shirts,
I marched with banners to the party stump,
Spat on my hands, made faces fierce as death,
Shook my two fists at once and introduced
Brave resolutions terrible to read! 
Nay, only recently, as you do know,
I conquered Treason by the word of mouth,
And slew, with Samson’s weapon, the whole South!