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Chorus.—Oh, Buchanan,
You will be blown sky high ; I'm going down to see the fun, But 'taint for me to cry."
" Tis time you fogies were killed off,
'Tis time that General Pierce Should pack his ' duds' and fix himself,
To walk behind your hearse ! You scape goats carrying off my sins,
'G'lang'—you travel slow ; But never mind, you're headed right,
You're going down below !
Chorus.—Oh, Buchanan,
You need't cry for me, Oh, don't you wish you had a wife,
Like John Fremont—-and me ! "
Thus Douglas to himself did sing,
Thinks I, you have told more Of sober truth, than you have spoke
In twenty years before ! Fremont will be our President,
Fremont, the brave and bold, Old Breck, and you, and all your crew,
Will just be laid out cold !
Chorus.—Oh, Buchanan,
You'd better cry, you see, Fremont will be the President,
And Kansas will be free. |
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