But, mastering his emotion, he
Remarked: "My friend, you're too d---- free;
"I'm Stephen M., by thunder, White!"
And, "Yes?" the guardian said, with quite
The self-same irritating stress
Distinguishing his former yes.
And still demurely as a mouse
He twirled the key to that Upper House.
Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain
Admittance to those halls to gain,
Said, neighborly: "Pray tell me. Pete,
Does any one contest my seat?"
The Saint replied: "Nay, nay, not so;
But you voted always wrong below:
"Whate'er the question, clear and high
You're voice rang: '_I_,' '_I_,' ever '_I_.'"
Now indignation fired the heart
Of that insulted immortal part.
"Die, wretch!" he cried, with blanching lip,
And made a motion to his hip,
With purpose murderous and hearty,
To draw the Democratic party!
He felt his fingers vainly slide
Upon his unappareled hide
(The dead arise from their "silent tents"
But not their late habiliments)
Then wailed--the briefest of his speeches:
"I've left it in my other breeches!"
A POLITICAL VIOLET
Come, Stanford, let us sit at ease
And talk as old friends do.
You talk of anything you please,
And I will talk of you.
You recently have said, I hear,
That you would like to go
To serve as Senator.
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