"fan into flame each dying rebel embek."


" Fools are my theme, l*i satire be my eong."Byron.

Daruno Bros, & Co., Publishers.


Piend wl}0 borrows i\)h (3ool^

instead of buying a copy, tl^e same is affectionately dedicated by

(3)HE 0UTH0R.

(3)o tb

Copyrighted, 188S, By DARLING BROS. & CO.

(3)HE Yeiec RR0M THE ^HR0NE.

IKE Byron in Don Juan, we want a hero, And, finding nothing better, choose ourself; Our popularity is nearing zero,

And we will soon be laid upon the shelf, Unless we ape the self-anointed Nero,

And court the favor of the kings of pelf, Or turn each critic to a living torch, And scorch those censors who delight to scorch.

Those cursed critics ! O how sharp their pens !

By Jupiter ! they make us fairly writhe ! They picture us with a distorted lense,

And hew and flay us with their verbal scythe; If we but wink, they rush forth from their dens

And pounce upon us (they're pernicious lithe.) The soulless wretches have no charity, They'd prick our bubble popularity.

So we are forced to blow our own bazoo, (We rather like to use the pronoun plural;

It gives the kingly purple brighter hue, And makes us look divine to optics rural);

Then hail US chief, ye brainless, bootless crew! The great dictator, pontiff, high-priest, cure-all;

A corner-stone on which to build or start a

Nation or a Democratic party.

They tell us that our brain's a trifle weak, And that our apex is a lonely bump ;

To be more plain, our head runs to a peak, Similar to the dromidary's hump;

That, though we have a well developed cheek, Our fittest cognomen is "Royal Chump."

But where's the use of any brains at all ?

Success's surest talisman is—gall !

Like simple George the Third, we scarcely know Why we're exalted, and it's rather puzzling-

Why men of brains should bow so very low

To one whose chief accomplishment is guggling;

Tis true, the patronage that we bestow

Is wondrous potent in its power of muzzling

The public censor ; sycophants, 'tis known, Delight to have a block head on the throne.

And as for us, why, we shall ne'er object,— Oh no—to whatsoever exaltation

The groveling slaves and sycophants select— E'en to an imperial coronation !

King Grover 1. would be a quite correct, And to ourself, most welcome appellation.

Thrice Caesar did the crown refuse—(the

The laborer shall have full recompense,

And from the contract vassal be secure;

With prison contract labor we'll dispense,

And give each laborer a sinecure; Each homeless wretch shall have a residence, And no excuse there'll be for being poor; In short, no promise will meet our rejection That's likely to secure our re-election.

Our One-Term claim was a gigantic guy,

But worked most charmingly with the unthinking; The quid nuncs knew 'twas wholly in our eye,

And readily discerned our subtle winking; Like Joey B., we're deep and dev'lish sly In ladling pabulum for public drinking. When we put forth that One-Term ultimatum, It was a Benedictine vow, verbatim.

Dear Corporations, fear not for thy fate:

We do not reprehend thy lust of gold;

Thy millions, won by syndicate

And trust and combination, we are told

By demagogues, thou dost accumulate

By wicked stratagems and methods bold; But we proclaim thy combinations just:

A public office is a public "trust."

In proof whereof, vide our manifesto,

Forbidding shipment of all goods in bond O'er English soil. It may be wrong to jest so,

But if the Senate"haply should respond, Retaliation, quick as wizard's presto!

Upon ourselves in dread force will rebound. We, Horace-like, the Etruscans hold at bay, And give monopolistic Tarquins sway.


Our Civil Service reformation fails

To satisfy your carping Fadladeens;

And so all o'er the land we hear the wails

Of those whose heads beneath our guillotine

Have dropped; and each our policy assails

As hypocritical (plague on their spleen);

But we protest our cleaver martyrs none,

Except he prove offensive partisan.

We do admit our veto's been profuse,

We've been unmindful of the nation's dead; Some who have had the hapless luck to lose A limb or so, and thousands more who shed

Their blood in Freedom's cause, we must refuse, E'en if their little ones do cry for bread, For what's the bread in soldiers orphan's mouth Compared with ballots garnered in a solid South ?

We love the soldier, if he's Democrat,

And votes and works for our retention ; And in his case withhold our dread fiat,

And freely grant him and his heirs a pension ;

We love the rebel with his mammoth hat, lie hath a wholesome voice for a convention ;

We love the mugwump, for to him alone Are we indebted for our present throne.

We love the Irish, and deplore their woes,

When not Republican, we love the German;

We love the Hebrew with his crooked nose,

The Scotchman with his pompous air and vermin;

We love Italians, French, Arrapahoes,

The negro, Turk or Russ, in rags or ermine,

The Spaniard, Pole or Chinaman, in coat or

Of all men, though, we love the English best, And this is why we advocate free trade: Fair Albion's business is somewhat depressed

From being headed in her ruthless raid Upon our manufactories; and lest

w PP

Cassock, if a Democratic voter.

She should bo ruined, hasten to her aid. It matters little how our own trade suffers, So we but bloat the bloated English coffers.

The Englishman loves us, next to his beer.

Or half-and-half, or ale, or beef or soul; The "Thunderer" admits that no Premier

Has so advanced their interests, on the whole. As did our message; and from ear to ear

Fat John Bull laughs,—the thing's so very droll, To see a nation paupered by its chief To give its bitt'rest enemy relief.

It galls us sore to see our people's pride

And vanity from o'er ^ ^ prosperity;

That Roman genius, wit and learning died From over feeding, is a verity;

Contentment's but a people's ebbing tide,

While hunger spurs them to celerity;

Hence, we'll apply that potent pruning blade

That never fails to humble—'clept Free Trade.

'Tis true, on sugar we'll ne'er lower the rate,

But sweep the tariff from all sorts of liquor, So all may learn to take their poison straight,

And feel the godly inspiration quicker; And wool shall share in liquor's happy fate,

So that the farmer may soon cease to dicker For living prices for his snowy fleeces, And see each foreign grower grow a Croesus.


Some members of our party, too, find fault Because we play the roll of party "boss," And hint at calling an eternal halt E'en at the risk of ours and party loss; Some growl because we're fond of Duffy's Malt,

And deem our action nothing short of gross, In testifying to the liquor's merits, In fair exchange for samples of the . spirits.

We love publicity, and 'tis our rule

To use our utmost efforts to promote it; We sweat dull speeches in the female school,

(It matters not what hungry scrivener wrote it); We speak at fairs to show that we're no fool— That is, we take a gazetteer and quote it,— And whelm the gaping dolts in mystery, How we should know their obscure history.

r Thus we've made

friendships in the

Sunny South \ With platitudes inordinately dull; The yahoos listened with distended mouth,

While we with taffy filled them brimming full; We praised their crops, spoke feelingly of drouth,

Their progress lauded—anything to gull And so impress them with our deep affection, That they will work and vote for our election.

Our Southern tour was an entire success:

At every point a patriotic crowd Received us with true Southern heartiness

And hospitality that did us proud. Chivalrous Southerners! how quaint ye dress—

Ye wear sombreros, and your faces shroud With tiny curtains, to avoid the rays, On which are blazoned three small mystic u K's."


What we desire (could we express our meaning) Is this: To keep all parties in the dark Upon the subject of our faith or leaning

'Till we attain ambition's highest mark; We will, till then—our inward motives screening— 'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis steer our bark ; This line will smack of learning to the common herd, Though of its meaning we know not a single word

We're no free trader—though we say wre are

Some stanzas back, and may seem inconsistent To those who've kindly followed us thus far;

But we'd much rather you'd not be persistent In making us a stationary star;

The fact is, we are truly non-resistant— Prefer to be a shooting luminary, That we may shift as the conditions vary.

For when your primal object's to deceive

Mankind,you can't be too mysterious;

Not comprehending, they will fain believe

Your mystic gibb'-rish something serious ;

Thus, if the priest his mummery should leave,

He'd cease at once to be imperious—

But this a theologic question raises—

We'll lose the Irish vote as sure as blazes!

But man has been, and e'er will be a dupe;

To learn the truth the masses are unwilling; They would no more to kingly ermine stoop Could they but penetrate the rotten filling, Than they would drink a restaurant's cheap soup

When they had witnessed its unclean distilling. And this explains why we are never wont To trust to any save our friend Lamont.

Good Dan'l knows our heart, (if there, indeed,

In our anatomy be such an organ); He also knows our weaknesses, and need

Of common sense, and so explains our jargon Unto the world, that gaping millions read,

And mentally portray this uncouth gorgon Somewhat more godly than the god Apollo, And as to brains—would beat old Plato hollow.

Dan knows our inner life, and so discreet

Is he, the world imagines us a Cato ; Our sottish, unchaste life would prove a treat

To scandal-mongers seeking toothsome data; But all who try to pump good Daniel, meet

The silence of a most discreet potato. Some sins will out, and go forth to the nation, And for these sins we ask extenuation.

Our sins, named in the order of their grade,

Are firstly, (doubtless worst of all), our vetoes; And secondly, our message on Free Trade ;

The third in line, returning those Palmettoes (Or Rebel battle flags) to each brigade;

Our many other sins, are like mosquitoes, Creeds and cranks, they thrive upon disaster, The more you crush em, they increase the faster.

On dit the people's servants have been used

By us to do our private dirty work ; That, while official matters are confused

And sadly in arrears, each drudging clerk With campaign documents is kept amused,

And dare not murmur, " peach " or shirk. But public offices for public good Are an inocuous desuetude.

So if you're flesh, or aught besides mere delf Or wood, or metal, and our unclean life Should nauseating prove, forget ourself, And fix your gaze upon our lovely wife— She who from each apothecary's shelf

Angelic beams, the rainbow of your strife— And should you deem us just a bit too rank a One to claim your franchise—vote for Frankie.

^HE 0LD 1^0MAN.

LD Roman" am I called—a name, no doubt, Suggested by a somewhat Roman nose, Which is, although not just the classic snout,

Quite Roman like, in that it comes to blows So frequently with that now famous clout,

The "red bandana" which we now propose To proudly float upon the breeze's puffing, And keep the party candle bright by snuffing.

The "red bandana" ! What a proud ensign

To float above a noble victor's car! In praise of it strike up ye tuneful Nine, And herald forth its glory from afar; Before it Godfrey's signet must resign,

The Roman Eagle and "S. P. Q. R.," Great Bruce's cross—all, all must come to grief, And yield before a dirty handkerchief!

What signifies what former chieftains chose

To mark their valor or embalm their deeds ? •

The cross,the crescent,eagle, lily, rose,

The lions, dragons, serpents, rampant steeds—

We choose the symbol of a

genVous nose, Which meets the sanction of all tribes and creeds, Save Japanese and tailors, I believe,— One uses paper, 'tother one his sleeve.

2 7

None can deny our crest is apropos,

And fits us like an India rubber garter; This motto added: "In hoc" (also blow)

"Signo vinces(motto for a Tartar), Will make a 'scutcheon worthy Ivanhoe ;

This harmless banner never caused a martyr-It never shed the blood of any fellow, Save one owned by a black man named Othello.

For Grover's 'scutcheon (as I have the knack o'

Fixing things and putting them in tune), I'll choose, as he has never strode the back o' Charger as a heavy or a light dragoon,

I'll choose, because, forsooth, he chews tobacco—

An inoffensive partisan spittoon. Then watch our banners sweeping all before— The "Red Bandana" and the "Cuspidor."

Of playing tail to an unwieldy kite.

For forty years I've struggled might and main

To gain the White 11 ouse,—'twas m y life's ambition ;

All tricks e'er known to politics in vain

I've tried to see my fondest hope's fruition ;

And now just as life's orbit 'gins to wane,

I find myself in that most sad position

(Tho' President I'd rather be than right),

And what is worse, his health is so robust

(That is, supposing his re-elevation), I ne'er can hope to live to see him dust,

And thus be lifted to his lofty station.

So all that I can h o p e for, pray, or trust,

Is epidemic or assassination

To make me president ; and fools, the sage in-

Forms us, are proof gainst murder and contagion.

To tell the learned world that I'm profound In everything, from baseball to the bible, Were doubting their own erudition sound—

Upon the av'rage intellect a libel. 1 trace the roots of Greek into the ground,

(This information's for the unread rabble) ; I know the Hebrew, German and Egyptian, And modern slang of every description.

Italian, Russian, Arabic and Danish, Sanscrit, Choctaw, Volapuk, Japanese,—

And as for classic Latin, French and Spanish,

I know them as I know my A B C's; The Scotch or Gaelic—people somewhat clanish,

And like their language, not approached with But I read Ossian, a thing no person [case ;

Ever did, but me and Jim Macpherson.

I worship it as Hindoos do their Bramah, The donkey thistles, or Jay Gould a dime—

But what proves most conclusive that 1 am a

Man of learning, with a soul sublime,

Is my devotion to the French-est drama—

In tragedy, or farce, in prose or rhyme—

If there's aught better than all else I do know,

It is Molliere or Dumas fits or Hugo.*

♦"He is thoroughly versed in,and passionately fond of, the French drama."—

Li/to/ Thurmnn.


Though long opposed, this truth must still prevail:

I hold that negros are but animals* But recently denuded of their tail,

And should be colonized with cannibals, Or put upon the block at public sale

As slaves, and herded in so many stalls, And made to toil 'neath summer's scorching rays. Just as it was in ante-bellum days.

♦"ThtJ negro is a prolific aoiuial."— Thumuxn'e Port Huron Spccch.

Republics, some maintain, should ne'er hold slaves,

And they my doctrine knowing, will repel its Force, although Sparta's democratic braves

For centuries in bondage held the Helots; And reared their temples upon bondsmen's graves,

While bawling "Liberty!" like lusty zealots. We want no negroes with Caucasians blent— This ought to be a white man's government.

And now my faith and wisdom I've defined

Quite plain enough for any comprehension ; My knowledge rare and Bourbon faith combined Ought surely claim the voters strict attention. Vote early and vote often, if inclined

Toward the Hobson's choice of the Convention, And I will take my lowly proper station At the table's foot, like a poor relation.

And now I'll say adieu until November,

When you, I hope, will rally at the polls; Fan into flame each dying rebel ember,

And roast the carpetbagger on the coals; Intimidate the nigger, for remember

They're only animals, and have no souls. From torrid Pensacola to Savannah The air make lurid with the Red Bandana.

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