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The Lounger's Lament.


TUNE — "Exile of Erin."

There stood by the Polls, a poor heart broken lounger,
No hope fired his eye, for his bosom was chill,
Bewailing the fate of his party in danger,
He thought of the days when it stood on a Hill.
His wild heaving breast, and his heart's sad emotion,
Were all that the lounger had left for his portion
Of glory and spoils, to repay his devotion,
And a few Extra Globes, from his patron saint, Blair.

"Sad, sad is the day," cried the office-lorn lounger,
"Oh, once to the custom house always I'd flee,
And there seek a refuge, at Bancroft's own manger,
For spouters and editors, hungry like me; —
O, never again in the Treasury bowers,
Long kept by the leaders, shall I loaf out the hours,
For the Log-Cabin boys have robbed Van of his powers
And he heeds not to-day the poor lounger's lament.

Benton, my darling, though sad and forsaken,
Dreaming of mint drops — I hear thy sweet roar;
But alas, among hard-handed Whigs I awaken,
And mourn for the Humbugs that cheat them no more.
O, merciless fate, wilt thou never return me
To my office of ease, where the feelings that burn me
Would be lost, if the weighers that gathered to teach me,
Should greet me again, as they greeted before.

Where's the Sub-Treasury, loved scheme of Van Buren,
Woodbury and Polk — they weep for its fall;
And where is Buchanan, the sweet and alluring
Who went for hard money, hard prices and all,


Oh, Johnson forsaken, before the full measure
Of wo had o'erflowed, in the cup of our pleasure
Once sparkling with spoils, the victor's own treasure,
Kill Tecumseh again, and thy glory recall.

But oh, old leaders, there's naught in suppressing
The tears that my own sad memory drew,
For the people they heed not your wiles and caressing.
They've sworn their allegiance to another than you —
They're sweeping along, like the waves of the ocean,
And voice after voice, with a grateful emotion,
Is joining the chorus of Freemen's devotion,
And swelling the shout of "Old Tippecanoe."