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Show LAMENT OF THE MAN WHO IS NO POLITCIAN. Ia no peace for & soul That's distracted with doubt? Let us know who is ia, Let us know who Jb out; ior our oyes they grow dim As on inures wo cho Ihfit mnko it f.jr Tildon And make it for Hajos. 0 for score &nd for prophoU Liko Lhuso of tho Jews! They wore better thun pupora That plague us with news; 'Thoy were smarter than editors, All in a daze, "Who toll us 'tis Tildeu, Aud toll us 'tis ilnyes. Call tho spooks and the mojuroi; l'erlmps thoy will know. Summon Siado with his poocil, ' And liome with his show. Let lliem rap on our tcoueos I To ond our amaze, I And say if 'tis Tildon, Or &y if 'tis id ayes. Is tint phantasmal rote Hid iu tho mountains or swamps? Go, Grays, with your lanterns, Go, Blues, with your lamps; Hunt it down, and, when captured, Just giro it a blaze, Whether fatal to Tildon, Or fatal to Hayoi. "Wo long for a season Of quiet and rest, To wipo oirourmoustHCho And pull down our vest; But how can wc do it When boys stop thoir plays To shout madly for Tildon, i Aud madly for lluyos? Ouryounj- men (-row gray And our Tut nion jrrow thin, Fed on "extras" thatlio Liko original sin. Givo us calm for our slumbers And peace for our days, For we're weary of Tildon, ( And woary of Hayes. Cincinnati Commercial. |