LETTER FROM A PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE. -BIGLOW PAPERS DEAR SIR,-You wish to know my notions On sartin pints thet rile the land; Ez bein' mum or underhand; It is a nose thet wunt be led. So, to begin at the beginnin'. Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, An', fact, it don't smell very strong; An' say wich party hez most sense; There may be folks o' greater talence Thet can't set stiddier on the fence. I'm an eclectic; ez to choosin' 'Twixt this an' thet, I'm plaguy lawth; I leave a side thet looks like losin' But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both; I stan' upon the Constitution, Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've planned A way to git the most profusion O' chances ez to ware they 'll stand. Ez for the war, I go agin' it, I mean to say I kind o' du,— I sign to thet with all my heart,- About thet darned Proviso matter Ez to the answerin' o' questions, Fer the holl country, an' the ground I don't appruve o' givin' pledges; You'd ough' to leave a feller free, An' not go knockin' out the wedges To ketch his fingers in the tree; Pledges air awfle breachy cattle Thet preudent farmers don't turn out,- Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion I think they air an Institution, On thet pint you yourself may jedge; Nor I haint never signed no pledge. Ez to my principles, I glory In hevin' nothin' o' the sort; I'm jest a candidate, in short; P. S. Ez we're a sort o' privateerin', O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheer, An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' I'll mention in your privit ear; Ef you git me inside the White House, Your head with ile I'll kin' o''nint By gittin' you inside the Light-house Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint. An' ez the North has took to brustlin' An' give our side a harnsome boost,- An' leaves me frontin' South by North. HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY.-T. MOORE. 'MO IG our neighbors, the French, in the good olden time When nobility flourished, great barons and dukes Often set up for authors in prose and in rhyme, But ne'er took the trouble to write their own books. Poor wretches were found to do this for their betters; The same is now done by our privileged class; And, to show you how simple the process it needs, If a great major general wishes to pass For an author of history, thus he proceeds: First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well The subaltern comes-sees his general seated, Well used to a breach, the brave subaltern dreads Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times more; And, though often condemned to the breaking of heads, He had ne'er seen such breaking of Priscian's befor However, the job 's sure to pay-that's enough- But, lo! a fresh puzzlement starts up to view New toil for the sub.-for the lord, new expense; 'Tis discovered that mending his grammar won't do, As the subaltern also must find him in sense! At last, even this is achieved by his aid; Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and-the story; Drums beat-the new grand march of intellect 's played-And off struts my lord, the historian, in glory! ADDRESS TO MY TEA-KETTLE.-HORACE SMITHL. LEAVING Some operatic zany MY KETTLE' Some learned singers, when they try MY KETTLE! They, when their inward feelings boil, And make a most discordant coil,— MY KETTLE! You, when you 're chafed, but sing the more; And, when just ready to boil o'er, In silent steam your passions soar,— hear their strains, one needs must bear Lae hours, noise, lassitude, hot air, And dissipation's dangers share,— MY KETTLE! |