The Whigs Warning to Matty.

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A Parody on "Lochiel's Warning."

WHIG.
OH, Matty! oh, Matty! beware of the day
When the Log Cabin boys stand in battle array!
When the hard-fisted workee shall give thee a bout,
And put thee and thy bloodhounds at once to a rout;

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When the farmer shall rush with his uplifted flail,
And thy loco's shrink back, and with horror turn pale;
When the honest mechanic, with tools long unus'd
Shall hammer thee well for thy office abused;
For a field of the conquered is plain to my sight,
And the clans of the spoilsmen are scattered in flight.
What steeds from thy palace flee with riders before?
They are thine, little Matty, thy carriage and four!
How their silver and buckles shine bright in the sun,
When the people exclaim, "See how finely they run!"

MARTIN.
Avaunt, hateful Whig, for my party is strong,
Though things in the nation go wofully wrong;
All my troops are well drilled, my partisans paid,
My schemes are most cunning, my plots are well laid.
I've Benton, the braggart, full of "humbug and salt,"
And heaven-born Amos, unspotted with fault;
I have Blair and his Globe brim full of my pap,
And Duncan, the valiant, brave knight of the tap;
I've armies of thousands by Poinsett well planned;
My navy with "cobblers and tinkers" is manned.
My national debt every day rises high,
And soon with the debt of old England will vie;
Forty millions I spend in the course of a year,
For votes I must have, tho' I purchase them dear.
Then my lands in the west, what a beautiful bribe
For the whole of your poor ragged Log Cabin tribe!
My Sub-Treasury bank gives my agents a chance
To pocket an outfit for England or France,
With nullification great ends I can serve
By keeping Calhoun as a corp de reserve.

WHIG.
Oh, Matty! oh, Matty! beware of the day
When the hard cider torrents shall sweep thee away;

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When from the far west in a "wagon and two,"
Rides the sturdy old farmer called Tippecanoe;
When the voices of millions shall raise the loud shout,
And a hero shall put all thy forces to rout.
Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot alter thy case —
Snug Kinderhook lies at the end of thy race;
The wrath of the people in fierceness doth burn,
Bidding thee to thy dwelling all lonely return.
I tell thee, Van Buren, dread echoes shall ring
From the Florida dogs for their fugitive king;
Thy Swartwouts shall mourn thee, and demagogues wail,
To think that thy long-vaunted magic should fail,
Take heed to my warning — thy reign is no more,
For "coming events cast their shadows before."