There was an ex-editor, L———,

Who rowed in the Courier punt,

But to twist around more, he jumped out on the shore,

That contortious poetical L———.

Oh G——— T——— C——— was one

Who thought himself quite a great gun;

So Treason he shouted, "Constitution" he spouted,

But Boston grew hot for such "Union Men"—so

He herds in New York with Fernando & Co.

To the cause of his country adverse,

Is the man whom all honest men curse.

Do you ask what's his name? oh, ne'er believe Fame,

If it be not Ex-President Pierce.

In Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-Six,

A poet, disgusted with Pierce's tricks,

Said that he down to the dust should go,

To grovel there in infamy low.

And in Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Three,

The prophecy came to pass, I see,

Since in the dust and on the ground,

As a Copperhead Pierce goes squirming round".

What a pity that Joshua D.

A good Insolvency lawyer should be,

Yet cannot, in politics, as we see,

Keep his own good name from bankruptcie!

John C. passes, now and then,

For one of Boston's League-al men.

Mistake me not—he doth intrigue

With the Liquor—not the Union—League!

Gamblers, Wood-ites, thieves, and asses,

Scrapings of the dangerous classes,

Pettifoggers malign, but weak,

Who dare not fight and cannot speak;

Trash which the war-tide rolling high

Has cast ashore in scorn to dry;

"Aristocrats" who fear to wage

Brave battle in a stirring age,

As did their glorious sires before,

Who won thereby the fame they wore;

Oh G. S. H————, tell us true.

Is this fit company for you?