"Ah!" says he, sighing like the great behemoth of the Scriptures, "I was thinking of the way of the transgressor. If the hinspired writers," says he, "thought the way of the transgressor was 'ard, I wonder what they'd think about this 'ere biscuit."
"You're jealous of America," says I, "and it will be the painful duty of the Union, the Constitution, and the Enforcement of the Law to capture Canada, if you continue your abolition harangues against the best, the most beneficent and powerful bread in the civilized world."
"Bread!" says he, with a groan in three syllables, "do you call this ere biscuit bread? Why," says he, "this ere biscuit is Geology, and if it were in old Hingland, it would be taken for one of the Elgin marbles, and placed in the British Museum."
I need scarcely inform you, my boy, that after this ungenerous remark of Great Britain, I left him contemptuously, and at once proceeded to blockade a place where the Oath is furnished in every style. We have borne with Great Britain a great while, my boy; but it is now time for us to take Canada, and wipe every vestige of British tyranny from the face of the Globe. The American eagle, my boy, flaps his dark wings over the red-head of battle, and as his scarlet eyes rest for a moment on the English Custom House, he softly whispers—he simply remarks—he merely ejaculates—Gore!
Americans! fellow-citizens! foreigners! and people of Boston! Shall we longer allow the bloated British aristocracy to blight us with base abolition proclivities, while Mr. Seward is capable of holding a pen?
"Hail, blood and thunder! welcome, gentle Gore!
Let the loud hewgag shatter every shore!
High to the zenith let our eagle fly,
Ten thousand battles blazing in his eye!
Nail our proud standard to the Northern Pole,