A Year to Come.
W. P. D.
We have sung of the present and we've sung of the past,
And they both are good as long as they last,
But now we will sing of what will be done
Within the space of a year to come,
Ri tu di nu di nu di nu
Ri tu di ni nu ri tu di nu ri na
The very first thing that we will make mention,
As worthy of note or even attention,
Will surely take place in the month of November,
About the sixth day, so the date please remember.
On that great day 'twill be truly surprising
To see the great mass of people arising,
And with one accord they'll gather in flocks
Around their last hope, the great Ballot Box.
'Tis there they will speak in tones of loud thunder,
And make all the Locos in agony wonder,
And hang in deep shames their most guilty head,
And wish but a fact, they only were dead.
There is a grand truth well known to us all,
If a house is divided, it surely must fall,
Then the Democrat shanty can stand it no longer,
For 'tis split like a rail from one end to t'other.
Now some go for Steve, of such mighty pretentions,
Yet in honors and size, of the smallest dimensions,
But so awfully fast the poor fellow has growed
That he's busted himself like ESOPS big toad.
To his friends this must be an awful sad joke,
So smart was this toad, to jump and to croak,
But he split his poor self on the political rocks,
By trying to swell as big as Abe's ox.
Another great part of this Democrat split,
Are thinking they made a most capital hit
By Breaking a Ridge and running a Lane
Thro' which they can drive the white house again.
But 'tis of no use, their waggon is broke,
That pesky old Buck has kicked out the spokes,
And Steve, their lead horse, has broken a trace,
So they might as well stop and give up the race.
Another potatoe, called Houston, we find,
Which makes out to be a spontaneous kind,
For in fact it never was planted or sowed,
But like ittle Topsey, I suppose that it growed.
In a warm sunny clime this plant did engender,
And therefore can't stand the great frost of November,
So we very much fear that the seed will be lost,
For we surely shall have a licking big frost.
Now on that old sheep that does bleating so well,
Some poor silly coots have hung an old Bell,
For they think that noise made by Bells and old sheep,
Must surely all safe this dear country keep.
But they certain will make an awful mistake,
If they ever should try that old Bell to shake,
We'll Ham(lin) string the sheep, and a make a nice pen
Of Abe Lincoln's rails and put them both in.
There they may ring and bleat, bleat away,
'Twill do them no good, they've just got to stay,
For Bells cannot ring, made of nothing but lead,
And sheep cannot bleat when once they are dead.