My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?
We can't never choose him o' course—thet's flat;
Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?)
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that,
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:
He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan—
He's been true to one party—an' thet is himself;
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;
He don't vally principle more'n an old cud;
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
The side of our country must ollers be took,
An' President Polk, you know, he is our country.
An' the angel that writes all our sins in a book
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry;
And John P.
Robinson he
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.
There is a story that Mr. Robinson couldn't go anywhere after this poem was published without hearing some one humming or reciting,
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
School children shouted it everywhere, people on the street repeated it as they met, and the funny rhyme was heard even in polite drawing-rooms, amid roars of laughter. Mr. Robinson went abroad, but scarcely had he landed in Liverpool before he heard a child crooning over to himself,
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
In Genoa, Italy, it was a parody, telling what John P.—Robinson he—would do down in Judee.