John C. Calhoun My Jo.

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TUNE -- "John Anderson my Jo."

Song performed by: Chad Sheridan (vocals) and Tara Dirst (banjo and guitar). Recording engineer: Matt Dotson.

John C. Calhoun, my Jo John, I'm sorry for your fate,
You've nullified the Tariff laws, you've nullified your State;
You've nullified your party, John, and principles you know,
And now you've nullified yourself, John C. Calhoun my, Jo.

Oh, John, how could you look in to the face of Henry Clay?
The glory of the Western World, and of the world away:
You call'd yourself his "master," John, but that can ne'er be so,
For he "would not own you for a slave," John C. Calhoun, my Jo.

The Father of the Tariff, John, and Patron of the Arts,
He seeks to build his country up in spite of foreign parts;
And HARRISON will soon upset the little Van & Co.,
And renovate the Ship of State, John C. Calhoun, my Jo.

John C. Calhoun, my Jo John, ambition in despair
Once made you nullify the whole, the half of it to share;
The "whole hog now you've gone," John, with Kendall, Blair & Co.,
But "you've got the wrong sow by the ear," John C. Calhoun, my Jo.

American mechanics, John, will never sell their votes
For mint-drops or for Treasury bills, or even British coats;
They want no English coaches, John, while servants they forego,
For their carriage is of Yankee stamp, John C. Calhoun, my Jo.

Oh, John, he is a slippery blade with whom you've got to deal,
He'll pass between your clutches too, just like a living eel;
You think he'll recommend you, John, but Van will ne'er do so,
For he wants the fishes for himself, John C. Calhoun, my Jo.

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John C. Calhoun, my Jo John, if this you dare to doubt
Go ask the Living Skeleton, who deals his secrets out;
His favorites are marked, John, the mark you cannot toe,
And you'll soon repent the bargain, John C. Calhoun, my Jo.

This is a dirty business, John, go wash your little hands,
And never bow the knee again to cunning Van's commands;
"How you are off for soap," John, I cannot say I know,
But "your mother does not know you're out," John C. Calhoun, my Jo.

The brave sons of the South, John, will never owe you more,
And Benton's mint-drops will not save -- you're rotten to the core;
The People will no power, John, on such as you bestow,
And you've jumped your final somerset, John C. Calhoun, my Jo.

John C. Calhoun, my Jo John, you'll ride with little Van,
From yonder Whited Sepulchre, with all his motley clan;
The journey will be long, John, now mind I tell you so,
For they never can return again, John C. Calhoun, my Jo.

Then better men, my Jo John, our sad affairs will fix,
Republicans in principle, the Whigs of seventy-six:
The offices they'll purge, John, the Swartwouters will go,
And sycophantic fellows too, John C. Calhoun, my Jo.

The Farmer of North Bend, John, will plough the weeds away,
And the terror of Tecumseh then will gain another day;
America will flourish, John, mechanics find employ,
And our mechanics will rejoice indeed, John C. Calhoun, my Jo.

John C. Calhoun, my Jo John, when one term shall expire,
He'll drop the reins of power and with dignity retire,
To look upon a smiling land that he has rendered so,
And every Whig will cry AMEN! John C. Calhoun, my Jo.