erat.  I have never thought it good husbandry to water the tender plants of reform with aqua fortis, yet, where so much is to do in the beds, he were a sorry gardener who should wage a whole day’s war with an iron scuffle on those ill weeds that make the garden-walks of life unsightly, when a sprinkle of Attic salt will wither them up. Est ars etiam maledicendi, says Scaliger, and truly it is a hard thing to say where the graceful gentleness of the lamb merges in downright sheepishness.  We may conclude with worthy and wise Dr. Fuller, that ’one may be a lamb in private wrongs, but in hearing general affronts to goodness they are asses which are not lions.’—­H.W.]

Guvener B. is a sensible man;
  He stays to his home an’ looks arter his folks;
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,
  An’ into nobody’s tater-patch pokes;
        But John P.
        Robinson he
    Sez be wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My! aint it terrible?  Wut shall we du? 
  We can’t never choose him o’ course,—­thet’s flat;
Guess we shall hev to come round, (don’t you?)
  An’ go in fer thunder an’ guns, an’ all that;
        Fer John P.
        Robinson he
    Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: 
  He’s ben on all sides thet gives places or pelf;
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—­
  He’s ben true to one party,—­an’ thet is himself;—­
        So John P.
        Robinson he
    Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;
  He don’t vally princerple more’n an old cud;
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,
  But glory an’ gunpowder, plunder an’ blood? 
        So John P.
        Robinson he
    Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gittin’ on nicely up here to our village,
  With good old idees o’ wut’s right an’ wut aint,
We kind o’ thought Christ went agin war an’ pillage,
  An’ thet eppyletts worn’t the best mark of a saint;
        But John P.
        Robinson he
    Sez this kind o’ thing’s an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took,
  An’ Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country. 
An’ the angel thet writes all our sins in a book
  Puts the debit to him, an’ to us the per contry;
        An’ John P.
        Robinson he
    Sez this is his view o’ the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;
  Sez they’re nothin’ on airth but jest fee, faw, fum;
An’ thet all this big talk of our destinies
  Is half on it ign’ance, an’ t’other half rum;
        But John P.
        Robinson he
    Sez it aint no sech thing:  an’ of course, so must we.