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Burial of Hon. Lewis Cass.


Not a groan was heard, not the first sad note,
As his corse from the "Platform" we hurried;
Not a Southron regretted his treacherous vote,
O'er the grave where the Doughface we buried.


We hustled him rapidly out of sight,
With his sword so manfully broken;
And our joy was great, for our hearts were light,
As we heard his requiem spoken.

No useless sighing -- we could not weep --
Nor in farewell regrets we bound him;
But he lay like a Fogy, soundly asleep,
With his Slavery letter around him.

Few, indeed, were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
While we joyfully gazed on the face of the dead,
And cheerfully thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we laid him forever at rest,
And prayed that the ------ Whigs might take him,
That the party hereafter were happily blest,
If only the last trump should wake him.

Lightly we'll talk of the Fogy that's gone,
And over his fate will be jolly,
And little we'll care, if he'll only sleep on
In the grave that he dug by his folly.

But a sixth of our cheerful task was done,
For Marcy, the man with the breeches,
And Douglass, and Butler, and Dickinson,
And Pillow, the builder of ditches,

Were all to be buried, each mother's son,
Ere the clock told the hour for retiring,
And our knell should boom from the old Scott gun
That we feared the Whigs would be firing.

Quickly and gladly we shoved them down,
With their fame and their fate unpainted;
Had Pierce been there, it is ten to one
His sensitive soul would have fainted.