has had a clear field and a gay country dance
Down there in Mexico--playing his tricks
While we had a family "discussion wid sticks";
But the game is played out; don't you see it's so handy
For Grant and his boys to march over the Grande.
He twists his waxed moustache and looks very blue,
And he says to himself, (what he wouldn't to you)
"Py tam--dair's mon poor leetle chappie--Dutch Max!
_Cornes du Diable_[CV]--'e'll 'ave to make tracks
Or ve'll 'ave all dem tam Yankee poys on our packs."

Monsieur l'Empereur, if your Max can get out
With the hair of his head on--he'd better, no doubt.
If you'll not take it hard, here's a bit of advice--
It is dangerous for big pigs to dance on the ice;
They sometimes slip up and they sometimes fall in,
And the ice you are on is exceedingly thin.
You're _au fait_, I'll admit, at a sharp game of chance,
But the Devil himself couldn't always beat France.
Remember the fate of your uncle of yore,
Tread lightly, and keep very close to the shore.

The Giant Republic--its future how vast!
Now, freed from the follies and sins of the past,

[CU] The Juggler.

[CV] Horns of the Devil!--equivalent to the exclamation--The Devil!

It will tower to the zenith; the ice-covered sea
And Darien shall bound-mark the Land of the Free.
Behold how the landless, the poor and oppressed,
Flock in on our shores from the East and the West!
Let them come--bid them come--we have plenty of room;
Our forests shall echo, our prairies shall bloom;
The iron horse, puffing his cloud-breath of steam,
Shall course every valley and leap every stream;
New cities shall rise with a magic untold,
While our mines yield their treasures of silver and gold,
And prosperous, united and happy, we'll climb
Up the mountain of Fame till the end of Old Time--
Which, as I figure up, is a century hence:
Then we'll all go abroad without any expense;
We'll capture a comet--the smart Yankee race
Will ride on his tail through the kingdom of Space,
Tack their telegraph wires to Uranus and Mars;
Yea, carry their arts to the ultimate stars,
And flaunt the Old Flag at the suns as they pass,
And astonish the Devil himself with--their brass.

And now, "Gentle Readers," I'll bid you farewell;
I hope this fine poem will please you--and _sell_.
You'll ne'er lack a friend if you ne'er lack a dime;
May you never grow old till the end of Old Time;
May you never be cursed with an itching for rhyme;
For in spite of your physic, in spite of