"Who sold the nutmegs made of wood—the clocks that
wouldn't figure?
Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark—the everlasting
nigger?
For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through 'tarnity I'll
kick
That man, I guess, though nothing less than 'coon-faced
Colonel Slick!"
The Colonel smiled—with frenzy wild,—his very beard
waxed blue,—
His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew;
He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat
below—
He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe,—
"Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!" he cried,
with ire elate;
"Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip my
weight!
Oh! 'tarnal death, I'll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and
your chaffing,—
Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without
laughing!"
His knife he raised—with, fury crazed, he sprang across
the hall;
He cut a caper in the air—he stood before them all:
He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should
do,
But spinning sent the President, and on young Dollar
flew.
They met—they closed—they sank—they rose,—in vain
young Dollar strove—
For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate Colonel
drove
His bowie-blade deep in his side, and to the ground they
rolled,
And, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked in
each other's hold.
With fury dumb—with nail and thumb—they struggled
and they thrust,—
The blood ran red from Dollar's side, like rain, upon the
dust;
He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sank
and died,
Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning by his side.
Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave
youth;
The bowie-knife has quenched his life of valour and of
truth;
And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they
tell
How nobly Dollar gouged his man—how gallantly he fell.
