“I wouldn’t agrumbled a bit,” said Jo,
“Et a tax on sugar un salt un sich;
  But I swow it’s a morul political sin
Tu drive the farmer intu the ditch
  With thet pesky teriff on tin. 
Ef they’d a put a teriff on irn un coal
  Un hides un taller un hemlock bark,
Why thet might a helped us out uv a hole
  By buildin uv mills un givin uv work,
Un gladd’nin many a farmer’s soul
  By raisin the price of pertaters un pork: 
But durn their eyes, it’s a morul sin—­
They’ve gone un riz the teriff on tin. 
I wouldn’t wonder a bit ef Blaine
Hed diskivered a tin mine over in Maine;
Er else he hez foundered a combinashin
Tu gobble the tin uv the hull creashin. 
I’ll bet Jay Gould is intu the’trust,’
Un they’ve gone in tergether tu make er bust;
Un tu keep the British frum crowdin in
They’ve gone un riz the teriff on tin. 
What’ll we du fer pans un pails
When the cow comes in un the old uns fails? 
Tu borrer a word frum Scripter, Hanner,
Un du it, tu, in pious manner,
You’ll hev tu go down in yer sock fer a ducat,
Er milk old Roan in a wooden bucket: 
Fer them Republikins—­durn their skin—­
Hez riz sich a turrible teriff on tin. 
Tu cents a pound on British tin-plate! 
Why, Hanner, you see, at thet air rate,
Accordin tu this ere newspaper-print—­
Un it mus be so er it wouldn’t’ be in’t—­
It’s a dollar un a half on one tin pan,
Un about six shillin on a coffee-can,
Un ten shillin, Hanner, on a dinner-pail! 
Gol! won’t it make the workin men squeal—­
Thet durned Republikin tax un steal! 
They call it Protecshin, but blast my skin
Ef it aint a morul political sin—­
Thet durned Republikin teriff on tin.

“Un then they hev put a teriff on silk
Un satin un velvit un thet air ilk,
Un broadcloth un brandy un Havanny cigars,
Un them slick silk hats thet our preacher wears;
Un he’ll hev tu wear humspun un drink skim milk. 
Un, Hanner, you see we’ll hev tu be savin,
Un whittle our store-bill down tu a shavin;
You can’t go tu meetin in silks; I vum
You’ll hev tu wear ging-um er stay tu hum.” 
But Hannah said sharply—­“I won’t though, I swum!”
And Hannah gazed wistfully on her Jo
As he rocked himself mournfully to and fro,
And then she looked thoughtfully into the fire,
While the sleet fell faster and the wind blew higher,
And Jo took a turn at the Daily Liar.

1890.

[Illustration:  “THE KENTRY’S AGOIN’, I GUESS, TO THE DOGS”]

PAT AND THE PIG

Old Deutchland’s the country for sauerkraut and beer,
Old England’s the land of roast beef and good cheer,
Auld Scotland’s the mother of gristle and grit,
But Ireland, my boy, is the mother of wit. 
Once Pat was indicted for stealing a pig,
And brought into court to the man in the wig.