Should Brave Soldiers Be Forgot?


AIR -- "Auld Lang Syne."

Should brave old soldiers be forgot?
Should patriots fail to twine
Wreaths, glorious wreaths, for those who fought
In days of old lang syne?
No! long as life endures will we
Deep in our hearts enshrine
The names of those who made us free
In days of old lang syne.

Proud England, gloating o'er her Crown,
And King, and ‘Rights Divine,’
Sent forth her slaves to chain us down,
In days of old lang syne;
But Freedom's champion averr'd
They'd make her ‘Lion’ whine,
And nobly did they keep their word,
In days of old lang syne.

They drew a Charter, strong and full,
Nor did they fear to sign
The bulletin that pricked John Bull
And cut in every line.
Among the hearts of flint whose fire
Lit up the flame benign,
Was Harrison -- Tip's sainted sire!
A Whig of old lang syne.


But not the father's fame alone
Exalts the soldier son --
He has bright laurels of his own,
In hard fought battles won!
The Wabash banks -- Fort Meigs -- the Thames --
Their tributes all combine
To rank him high with those whose names
Were dear in old lang syne.

And who's Van Buren? -- where, and when,
Did he lead on the brave,
Or raise his voice, or wield his pen,
Or ope his purse to save?
While Tip gave fight, he styled the war
‘Disastrous’ and ‘malign,’
And richly earned a coat of tar,
As tories did lang syne.

Let those who love sub-treasury charms --
Hard work and little pay,
Closed working-shops and mortgaged farms --
Extol King Martin's sway,
But we have solemnly affirm'd
We will not rest supine
Till Van shall squirm, as Crosswell squirm'd,
And wriggled -- not lang syne!

The knapsack pillow'd Harry's head,
The hard ground eased his toils;
While Martin, on his downy bed,
Could dream of nonght but ‘spoils.’
And shall the Blue-light rule the Free?
Shall Freedom's star decline!
Forbid it Heaven! forbid it ye
Who bled in old lang syne.


Is Harrison one whit the worse
Because he'd not secure,
As Martin did, a long, full purse,
But went from office poor?
And does the low ‘log-cabin’ hearth
Unfit Old Tip to shine?
Did no log homes give nobles birth
In days of old lang syne?

What though the Hero's hard ‘huge paws’
Were wont to plough and sow?
Does that disgrace our sacred cause?
Does that degrade him? No!
Whig farmers are our nation's nerve,
Its bone -- its very spine!
They'll never swerve -- they did not swerve
In days of old lang syne.

No ruffled shirt, no silken hose
No airs does Tip display;
But like the ‘pith of worth’ he goes
In homespun ‘hoddin-grey.’
Upon his board there ne'er appear'd
The costly sparkling wine,
But plain ‘hard cider’ such as cheer'd
In days of old lang syne.

Connecticut has raised the heel
Tip's tory foes to bruise;
And keenly do their vitals feel
The tread of 'Jersey Blues.
November's ides will give the stroke,
Hard fatal and condign,
A blow like that which snapped the yoke
In days of old lang syne.


Yes, Tip must grace the big ‘White House!’
(Alas! for groom and cook!)
And Van on Kabbitch-stalks must brouse,
At home, sweet home -- the 'hook!
Thrice hail, old Tip! ‘Log Cabin’ Tip!
‘Hard Cider’ Tip! -- to you
The Helm we give! -- hail Noble Ship!
‘Land ho!’ the port's in view!
Huzza! huzza! Kind Heaven be prais'd --
The Star, the Star benign,
Shines bright! -- 'tis Freedom's Star that blazed
In days of old lang syne!