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The South shall have a President—
One of her own—you'll see ; I'm sure I am a modest man,
But pray ! Who will he be $"
" Oh, Buchanan," &c.
Poor " Buck " will have good company
On his melancholy row, For the front seat of the boat's reserved
For Mi-lord Fill, you know. How sad they'll feel as they row up,
And how they'll heave a sigh, When they think of Fremont's victory,
And hear the " Bully" cry.
" Oh, Buchanan," &e.
As pants the hart for cooling streams,
When heated in the chase ; So pants the Buck for the White House,
And presidential place. And 'tis too bad, that poor old Buck
Will have to hear, at last, The ruffian Brooks call from the bank,
As he goes rowing past—
" Oh, Buchanan," &c.
Then, when Thanksgiving week comes round,
And 'lection day is o'er, T'will be our duty to give thanks
For one great blessing more ; For as we pass the turkey round,
And eat the pumpkin pies, Poor Buck is sadly rowing up,
While Bully Preston cries—
" Oh, Buchanan," &c. |
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