Like the Phœnix he's immortal, and he soars to the Sun's portal,
But—the Phœnix has sick spells, like lesser poultry.
Wants fresh fixing up, I reckon, then the dawn once more he'll beckon,
And sprint—from Memnon's statue to Fort Moultrie.
Bull ain't an Eagle builder, but he makes a bully gilder,
And I reckon, guess, and calc'late I'll jest try him.
If I git from the old fellow a good coat of British Yellow—
A sort o' paint J. B. keeps always by him—
My Bird o' Freedom soaring, where the blizzards are a roaring,
And the cloud-bursts are out-pouring, will jest flicker