him an’ never know on ’t, scurce,
Unless he scratches, goin’ down, with them ’ere Gin’ral’s spurs. 
I’ve ben a votin’ Demmercrat, ez reg’lar as a clock,
But don’t find goin’ Taylor gives my narves no gret ’f a shock;
Truth is, the cutest leadin’ Wigs, ever sence fust they found
Wich side the bread gut buttered on, hev kep’ a edgin’ round;
They kin’ o’ slipt the planks frum out th’ ole platform one by one
An’ made it gradooally noo, ’fore folks khow’d wut wuz done,
Till, fur ‘z I know, there aint an inch thet I could lay my han’ on,
But I, or any Demmercrat, feels comf’table to stan’ on, 110
An’ ole Wig doctrines act’lly look, their occ’pants bein’ gone,
Lonesome ez steddies on a mash without no hayricks on.

I spose it’s time now I should give my thoughts upon the plan,
Thet chipped the shell at Buffalo, o’ settin’ up ole Van. 
I used to vote fer Martin, but, I swan, I’m clean disgusted,—­
He aint the man thet I can say is fittin’ to be trusted;
He aint half antislav’ry ’nough, nor I aint sure, ez some be,
He’d go in fer abolishin’ the Deestrick o’ Columby;
An’, now I come to recollec’, it kin’ o’ makes me sick ’z
A horse, to think o’ wut he wuz in eighteen thirty-six. 120
An’ then, another thing;—­I guess, though mebby I am wrong,
This Buff’lo plaster aint agoin’ to dror almighty strong;
Some folks, I know, hev gut th’ idee thet No’thun dough’ll rise,
Though, ’fore I see it riz an ’baked, I wouldn’t trust my eyes;
’Twill take more emptins, a long chalk, than this noo party’s gut,
To give sech heavy cakes ez them a start, I tell ye wut. 
But even ef they caird the day, there wouldn’t be no endurin’
To stan’ upon a platform with sech critters ez Van Buren;—­
An’ his son John, tu, I can’t think how thet ’ere chap should dare
To speak ez he doos; wy, they say he used to cuss an’ swear! 130
I spose he never read the hymn thet tells how down the stairs
A feller with long legs wuz throwed thet wouldn’t say his prayers. 
This brings me to another pint:  the leaders o’ the party
Aint jest sech men ez I can act along with free an’ hearty;
They aint not quite respectable, an’ wen a feller’s morrils
Don’t toe the straightest kin’ o’ mark, wy, him an’ me jest quarrils. 
I went to a free soil meetin’ once, an’ wut d’ye think I see? 
A feller was aspoutin’ there thet act’lly come to me,
About two year ago last spring, ez nigh ez I can jedge,
An’ axed me ef I didn’t want to sign the Temprunce pledge! 140
He’s one o’ them that goes about an’ sez you hedn’t oughter
Drink nothin’, mornin’, noon, or night, stronger ’an Taunton water. 
There’s one rule I’ve ben guided by, in settlin’ how to vote, ollers,—­
I take the side thet isn’t took by them consarned teetotallers.