help admittin’
The Father o’ his Country’s shoes no feet but mine ’ould fit in, 10
Besides the savin’ o’ the soles fer ages to succeed,
Seein’ thet with one wannut foot, a pair’d be more ’n I need;
An’, tell ye wut, them shoes’ll want a thund’rin sight o’ patchin’,
Ef this ere fashion is to last we’ve gut into o’ hatchin’
A pair o’ second Washintons fer every new election,—­
Though, fer ez number one’s consarned, I don’t make no objection.

I wuz agoin’ on to say thet wen at fust I saw
The masses would stick to ’t I wuz the Country’s father-’n-law,
(They would ha’ hed it Father, but I told ’em ’twouldn’t du,
Coz thet wuz sutthin’ of a sort they couldn’t split in tu, 20
An’ Washinton hed hed the thing laid fairly to his door,
Nor darsn’t say ’tworn’t his’n, much ez sixty year afore,)
But ’taint no matter ez to thet; wen I wuz nomernated,
’Tworn’t natur but wut I should feel consid’able elated,
An’ wile the hooraw o’ the thing wuz kind o’ noo an’ fresh,
I thought our ticket would ha’ caird the country with a resh.

Sence I’ve come hum, though, an’ looked round, I think I seem to find
Strong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to make me change my mind;
It’s clear to any one whose brain aint fur gone in a phthisis,
Thet hail Columby’s happy land is goin’ thru a crisis, 30
An’ ’twouldn’t noways du to hev the people’s mind distracted
By bein’ all to once by sev’ral pop’lar names attackted;
‘Twould save holl haycartloads o’ fuss an’ three four months o’ jaw,
Ef some illustrous paytriot should back out an’ withdraw;
So, ez I aint a crooked stick, jest like—­like ole (I swow,
I dunno ez I know his name)—­I’ll go back to my plough. 
Wenever an Amerikin distinguished politishin
Begins to try et wut they call definin’ his posishin,
Wal, I, fer one, feel sure he ain’t gut nothin’ to define;
It’s so nine cases out o’ ten, but jest thet tenth is mine; 40
An’ ’taint no more ’n proper ‘n’ right in sech a sitooation
To hint the course you think’ll be the savin’ o’ the nation;
To funk right out o’ p’lit’cal strife aint thought to be the thing,
Without you deacon off the toon you want your folks should sing;
So I edvise the noomrous friends thet’s in one boat with me
To jest up killick, jam right down their hellum hard alee,
Haul the sheets taut, an’, layin’ out upon the Suthun tack,
Make fer the safest port they can, wich, I think, is Ole Zack.

Next thing you’ll want to know, I spose, wut argimunts I seem
To see thet makes me think this ere’ll be the strongest team; 50
Fust place, I’ve ben consid’ble round in bar-rooms an’ saloons
Agetherin’ public sentiment, ’mongst Demmercrats and Coons,
An’ ’taint ve’y offen thet I meet a chap but wut goes in
Fer Rough an’ Ready, fair an’ square, hufs, taller, horns, an’ skin;
I don’t deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez I could