O! Who Does Not See in this Heart-Cheering Ray.

37

Air — "Star Spangled Banner."

The annual election for charter officers in the city of Pittsburgh, took place on Monday the thirteenth ult. and the result is a clear sweep for Harrison! Democratic Whig majority seven hundred and twenty-six!

O! Who does not see in this heart-cheering ray
That pierces the heart of malign domination,
A sign that foretells, with precision, the day
When Columbia shall rise from her low degradation
When the spoil-hunting race shall be foil'd in the chase,
The Kinderhook quack hide his head in disgrace,
And the starry Whig banner triumphantly wave
"O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave."

O'er the city of Pitt, 'mid the eagle's own hills,
Where many a patriot bosom is burning,
What is that which gives Tories such horrible chills,
And to which all Whig eyes are in "fine phrenzy" turning?
Say, what is that sight, which fills Van with affright,
And makes all his vassals the nether lip bite?
Tis the Harrison banner! — And soon 'twill be waved
O'er a whole State redeemed! — O'er a great nation saved!

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All hail the proud Key-Stone! — she fired the first gun
For the old "Declaration," blood-seal'd by the martyr;
And now she is first to declare for the son
Of the sire, whose own hand sign'd that dear cherish'd charter.
Her first gun has roar'd for the hero whose sword
Sprang quick from the scabbard, and ne'er was restored
'Till victory smiled! — For though brave men oft yield,
He never surrendered! — he ne'er lost a field.

Let the Swartwouts and Prices who, year after year,
Have fed on "the spoils," and waxed rich on our treasure,
At Harrison's "poverty" throw out the sneer,
And heap on the veteran abuse without measure;
The wretch that defames, does but strengthen the claims
Of the hero of Tippecanoe and the Thames,
And freshen the laurels, which none sought to bruise,
'Till 'twas found that their greeness gave Martin the blues!

When asked "Who is Harrison?" — thus can we boast: —
"He is one of the glorious signer's descendants,"
The son of a man who pledged all he loved most, —
"Life, fortune, and honour," for prized independence
In Washington's breast a warm place he possess'd —
With Jefferson's — Madison's love he was bless'd —
Let Proctor, and others, who felt his tight grip,
Tell the rest of the tale of our gallant Old Tip.

May the ship that gets snagg'd ever find — what she'll need,
A "petticoat" ample to plug up the cranny; —
And aye may these States, when in pain to be freed
From a monster that gnaws, find a competent "granny."

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A practical hand, from that obstetric band,
To which "Granny" Wayne wink'd the word of command,
And put both the red skins and red coats "to bed,"
With a gunpowder sweat and a bolus of lead!

The "log cabin candidate," — "poor," we allow,
But honest, and skill'd in the farmer's vocation, —
Has put his hard fist to the National Plough,
And will root out the Upas that curses the nation!
Let every true friend of his country extend
His aid to the ploughman and sage of North Bend,
And this be our shout, as the ball proudly rolls,
"On, patriots, on!" — To the polls! — to the polls!