A New Song.


TUNE — "Old Rosin the Bow."

The story we'll tell you's surprisin',
But then you will find it no joke;
The Locos who wish'd to take poison,
Have determined at last to take (poke) Polk.
Have determined, &c.

The most of them swallow'd Van Buren,
But found him too little to choke —
Large doses of Cass they did pour in,
But found it all ended in smoke.
But found, &c.


Some took a few bottles of Stewart.
Which made the majority croak;
They said that his friends should be skewer'd,
Or else — take a full dose of Polk.
Or else, &c.

A few wished to take "Indian physic,"
And at old "Blue Dick" they did pull;
But most of them soon got the phthisic
In trying to swallow the wool.
In trying, &c.

For Buchanan they then made a Dodge,
And thought it was quite a bold stroke,
But the mass of them call'd it all fudge,
And said they'd be forced to take Polk,
And said, &c.

Then the South brought a box of Calhoun,
And thought that all charms they had broke;
But the West let them know pretty soon,
That they were all bound to take Polk.
That they, &c.

The lads from the Keystone were callous,
And proof against taking Polk tea;
And though it is sweeten'd with Dallas,
They still have a will to be free.
They still, &c.

Though Polk tea some think is rank poison,
We'll stop its effects in a day —
Its antidote is Frelinghuysen,
When taken in doses with Clay,
When taken, &c.

But the Whigs know the season for greens,
For this year has passed quite away;
We'll soon show the Locos we've means
To put their Polk under the Clay.