Now call for the President's marshal again, bring out the government
cannon,
Fetch home the roarers from Congress,—make another procession, guard it
with foot and dragoons.
This centre-piece for them!
Look, all orderly citizens! Look from the windows, women!
The committee open the box; set up the regal ribs; glue those that will not
stay;
Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull.
You have got your revenge, old bluster! The crown is come to its own, and
more than its own.
6.
Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you are a made man from this
day;
You are mighty 'cute—and here is one of your bargains.
FRANCE, THE EIGHTEENTH YEAR OF THESE STATES.[1]
1.
A great year and place; A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother's heart closer than any yet.
2.