Where the next convention would be held, but Chicago bore us down:
The copper bottomed stomachs of their Statesmen held out well
And to us the merry gurgle of each bottle was a knell,
Who could hope against such talent the convention to secure—
Hope to make our sham Democracy o’ercome their Simon pure!
No—the contest was a hopeless one—defeat has made me weak!
And I ne’er shall see St. Louis— St. Louis by the creek.
His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse—he motioned for a drink,
His eyes assumed a home-like look, he even ceased to blink;
His comrade mixed a cocktail, but the spark of life had fled—