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And Killing’s a sure path to fame,
Vide Jack Ketch and Mr. Clinton!
Our Council well this path have trod,
Honor’s immortal wreath securing;
They’ve dipped their hatchets in the blood,
The patriot blood, of Mat Van Buren.

He bears, as every hero ought,
The mandate of the powers that rule
(He’s higher game in view, ’tis thought,
All in good time; the man’s no fool).
With him, some dozens prostrate fall,
No friend to mourn, nor foe to flout them,
They die unsung, unwept by all,
For no one cares a sou about them.

Wortman and Scott may grace the bar again,
For them, a blest exchange we make;
We’ve dignity in Ned McGareaghan,
And all, but that, in Jerry Drake.
And lo! the wreath of withered leaves
That lately twined Van Buren’s brow,
Oakley’s pure, spotless hand receives;
He’s earned it—’tis no matter how.

Let office-holders cease to weep,
And put once more their gala-dress on;