see,
I didn’t like at fust the Pheladelphy nomernee: 
I could ha’ pinted to a man thet wuz, I guess, a peg
Higher than him,—­a soger, tu, an’ with a wooden leg;
But every day with more an’ more o’ Taylor zeal I’m burnin’,
Seein’ wich way the tide thet sets to office is aturnin’; 60
Wy, into Bellers’s we notched the votes down on three sticks,—­
’Twuz Birdofredum one, Cass aught an Taylor
  twenty-six,
An’ bein’ the on’y canderdate thet wuz upon the ground,
They said ’twuz no more ’n right thet I should pay the drinks all round;
Ef I’d expected sech a trick, I wouldn’t ha’ cut my foot
By goin’ an’ votin’ fer myself like a consumed coot;
It didn’t make no deff’rence, though; I wish I may be cust,
Ef Bellers wuzn’t slim enough to say he wouldn’t trust!

Another pint thet influences the minds o’ sober jedges
Is thet the Gin’ral hezn’t gut tied hand an’ foot with pledges; 70
He hezn’t told ye wut he is, an’ so there aint no knowin’
But wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin’;
This, at the on’y spot thet pinched, the shoe directly eases,
Coz every one is free to ’xpect percisely wut he pleases: 
I want free-trade; you don’t; the Gin’ral isn’t bound to neither;—­
I vote my way; you, yourn; an’ both air sooted to a T there. 
Ole Rough an’ Ready, tu, ‘s a Wig, but without bein’ ultry;
He’s like a holsome hayin’ day, thet’s warm, but isn’t sultry;
He’s jest wut I should call myself, a kin’ of scratch ez ’tware,
Thet aint exacly all a wig nor wholly your own hair; 80
I ‘ve ben a Wig three weeks myself, jest o’ this mod’rate sort,
An’ don’t find them an’ Demmercrats so defferent ez I thought;
They both act pooty much alike, an’ push an’ scrouge an’ cus;
They’re like two pickpockets in league fer Uncle Samwells pus;
Each takes a side, an’ then they squeeze the ole man in between ’em,
Turn all his pockets wrong side out an’ quick ez lightnin’ clean ’em;
To nary one on ’em I’d trust a secon’-handed rail
No furder off ’an I could sling a bullock by the tail.

Webster sot matters right in thet air Mashfiel’ speech o’ his’n;
‘Taylor,’ sez he, ’aint nary ways the one thet I’d a chizzen, 90
Nor he aint fittin’ fer the place, an’ like ez not he aint
No more ‘n a tough ole bullethead, an’ no gret of a saint;
But then,’ sez he, ’obsarve my pint, he’s jest ez good to vote fer
Ez though the greasin’ on him worn’t a thing to hire Choate fer;
Aint it ez easy done to drop a ballot in a box
Fer one ez ‘tis fer t’other, fer the bull-dog ez the fox?’
It takes a mind like Dannel’s, fact, ez big ez all ou’ doors,
To find out thet it looks like rain arter it fairly pours;
I ’gree with him, it aint so dreffle troublesome to vote
Fer Taylor arter all,—­it’s jest to go an’ change your coat; 100
Wen he’s once greased, you’ll swaller