Classic Poem

— Honest abe! — What strange vexation
Thrills an office-armchaired party!
What impatience and disgust
That the people should put trust
In a name so true and hearty!
What indignant lamentation
For the unchosen — surely fitter
(Growl they) than a rough rail-splitter —
Most unheard-of nomination!

If the name you chance to mention,
Sir (they splutter) the Convention,
Sir, has acted like a babe!
You have missed it, be assured,
All your best men left to leeward;
Give us Banks, or Bates, or Seward, —
But confound this — Honest A BE ! —

There's a story somewhere told,
By a fellow grave and old,
Which, just now, is rather pat.
I bethink me of his name —
Plutarch — and of lives the same
Had as many as a cat.

In the little State of Athens
Was a usage, there and then
Practised by those classic heathens,
Rather hard on public men.
Whatsoe'er the service past,
If they happened to distrust 'em —
Thought 'em getting on too fast —
'Twas, it seems, the pleasant custom
Just an oyster-shell to shy
( Sans a wherefore or a why)
Into a ballot-box huge and high —
With whatever name upon it
Chanced the elector's mind to strike,
(Sulking, like a jealous noddy,
O'er his Norwalks and his toddy,) —
Well — the name of anybody
That he didn't chance to like.
And the gentleman who won it —
Such election — (held to tell
What the free enlightened wished) —
Was, in fact, considered dished,
And served out on the half-shell!
And must needs, at any rate,
Draw a line in double-quick,
Mizzle, vamos , cut his stick,
And absquatulate!

Simple and ingenious scheme!
Of split tickets there were none —
(Though the bivalve you might deem
Suited well for such extreme) —
Hard or Soft Shell — all was one!

Once, while thus with general clamor
Athens eased her factious heart —
When the smith forsook his hammer,
And the huckster left his mart —

Past the scene of noisy riot,
Clatter of shells and windy talk,
Aristides, calm and quiet,
Chanced to take a morning walk.

Musing, in his wonted fashion,
On the double care of state —
On the Demos' fickle passion,
And the cold patrician hate;

When a voter pressed beside him,
Saying, — Stranger, can you spell
Aristides? Wal, jest write him,
Square and straight, on this here shell. —

Smiling, cheery as a cricket,
Wrote the old Republican —
Then, as he returned the ticket,
Asked — — And what's his crime, my man? —

— Wal, not much, — said Snooks, appearing
Puzzled, — only I'll be cussed
But I'm sick to death of hearing
That old critler called — THE J UST — ! —