Now Nine-tailed Joe loved cheerfulness, And he chanced in a pleasant mood to be, So he flogged his niggers, and played at chess, And drank a full jorum of Sangaree. What can be the matter with flogging Joe? His eyes are rolling to and fro, And he rubs his nose with his finger and thumb, And gasps to speak, like one that is dumb. The forms that lately were pawns and knights, And bishops, and queens, and kings, Were reeling and wheeling, like so many sprites, Or other unearthly things. And beings all fearfully black were there, And they roll'd their eyes at Joe, And wildly flourished the _cat_ in air, And danced to "Jump Jim Crow." Before them fled both bishop and knight, While pawn and king were seen Rolling and tumbling, in awful plight,— Decorum was gone, and they fled outright,— And surely it was a most terrible sight When the bishop fell over the queen. With burning head and aching heart, Up from his chair did the planter start: But the vision had fled, and there, instead Of dancing niggers' furious tread, Was seen the _Bill_, the dreadful Bill, The Whiggish Act of Slavery, That made him rich against his will, And stopped him in his knavery. —————— The planter's dream doth plainly seem To point a moral deep: If you choose to whack a nigger's back, You should never go to sleep. AUGUST.—DOGS HAVE THEIR DAYS. See, now, what life is; I have had ill-luck on ill-luck from that day to this. I have sunk in the world, and, instead of riding my horse and drinking my wine, as a real gentleman should, have hardly enough now to buy a pint of ale; ay, and am very glad when anybody will treat me to one. Why, why was I born to undergo such unmerited misfortunes?