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 't is fer t' other, fer the bulldog 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; Wen he's once greased, you 'll swaller him an' never know on't, source, Unless he scratches, goin' down, with them air Gin'ral's spurs. I 've ben a votin' Demmercrat, ez reg'lar ez 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 know'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, An' ole Wig doctrines act'lly look, their occ'pants bein' gone, Lonesome ez staddles on a mash without no hay-ricks 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 recollect, it kin' o' makes me sick 'z A horse, to think o' wut he wuz in eighteen thirty-six. 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 would n't trust my eyes; 'T will 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 would n't be no endurin' To stand upon a platform with sech critters ez Van Buren;-- An' his son John, tu, I can't think how thet air chap should dare To speak ez he doos; wy, they say he used to cuss an' swear! I spose he never read the hymn thet tells how down the stairs A feller with long legs wuz throwed thet would n't say his prayers.