A Scott-ish Melody.
AIR -- ROSIN THE BOW.
Come all ye true men of the nation,
From mountain, and valley, and grot,
And swell the immense congregation,
Determined on voting for Scott.
Entwined with our national glory,
His name, it will ne'er be forgot;
For the temple of Fame's upper story
Resounds with the valor of Scott.
His acts will defy scrutinizing --
His life's without blemish or spot;
All the lies of the devil's devising,
Cannot tarnish the luster of Scott.
Inured to war's thunders and rattles,
Where death speeds his shafts thick and hot,
'Tis needless to tell of his battles --
The world knows the prowess of Scott --
'Tis vain for his foes to deride him,
They surely had much better not;
For the people are bound to confide in
The wisdom and virtue of Scott.
Though others may boast a line prouder,
Or heir a more fortunate lot;
He pales not at the smell of gunpowder --
No fainting fits e'er trouble Scott.
If soup his defamers are after,
He'll give it them hasty and hot --
A sovereign specific for laughter,
When tempered and spiced a-la-Scott!
Prepared for the ides of November --
Beware of each enemy's plot;
Then with joy will our country remember
The finality triumph of Scott.