Secrets of Dem-ocracy.

43

TUNE -- RORY O'MORE.

Now, Paddy, my darlint, just listen to me
While I give ye some hints that will help ye to see
The wiles that the Lokies are laying to take
The sons of owld Erin, who're not wide awake.
If a can of good whisky, they show you the sight --
(And, faix! It's not bad, on a could winther night!)
Then, Paddy, my boy, when they urge ye to dhrink,
Just be prudent, my lad, and tip 'em the wink --

44

Don't heed 'em, the blackguards! They're full of desate,
For your votes at election they're lying in wait;
Now, Paddy, my darlint, just listen to me,
And I'll teach ye some sacrets of Dem-ocracy.

Och, Paddy, my boy, of their promises fair --
It's meself that's in arnest, would bid ye beware,
They'll trate ye, and chate ye, and lave ye at last
To go to the dogs -- when election is past.
Sure, ye know Paddy, darlint, our faith was a scorn
To the tyrants who ruled o'er us, where we were born;
So we left our dear Erin, and came to the shore
Where the flag of the Freeman shall wave evermore,
And we'll fight for our freedom in this land of our choice,
We'll fight with one heart, and we'll vote with one choice,
Then, Paddy, my darlint, just listen to me,
And I'll teach ye some sacrets of Dem-ocracy.

They'll tell ye, my lad, in the old Granite State,
There's a candidate there who cannot be bate,
They'll puff him and praise him and shout and halloo,
But, Paddy, my jewel! Don't let 'em fool you!
He's a spalpeen, belave me, who faints in the fight;
While brave men are falling, he shows feathers white.
When true men are urging the widow's fair claim,
In the negative vote you will find Pierce's name;
Worthy son of New Hampshire, the only free State,
Where our sons, to howld office must be apostate!
Then, Paddy, my darlint, just listen to me,
While I teach ye some sacrets of Dem-ocracy.

They'll teach you his merits, which loudly they'll shout,
For unless they did that, they would niver lake out;
He once on a time gave a WHOLE CINT away,
So his heart must be open and gin'rous as day!

45

But, Paddy, my darlint, don't be caught by a toy,
I'll show you a jewel -- he's just the owld boy
To win all the hearts of Green Erin's bowld sons;
Then let's give SCOTT a volley from true Irish guns.
We have not forgotten the caution he gave us,
When he sought from the cords of the British to save us.
That the brogue don't betray us, 'tis silent we'll be,
Lest we fall in the snares of false Dem-ocracy.