Posts Tagged ‘1849’

The Old American Flag

July 2, 2012

Image from The Gadsden Flag

From the London Chronicle.

The Old American Flag.

The American Standard is thus described. The colors of the American fleet have a snake with thirteen rattles, the fourteenth budding, described in the attitude of going to strike, with this motto “Don’t tread on me.” It is a rule in heraldry that the worthy properties of the crest bone shall be considered and the base one intended. The ancients accounted a snake or a serpent, an emblem of wisdom, and in certain attitudes of endless duration. The rattle snake is properly a representative of America, as this animal is found in no other part of the world. The eye of this creature excels in brightness that of any other animal. She has no eye-lid, and is therefore an emblem of vigilance. — She never begins an attack nor ever surrenders. She is therefore an emblem of magnanimity and true courage. When injured she never wounds till she gives notice to her enemies in danger.

No other of her kind show such generosity. When undisturbed and in peace, she does not appear to be furnished with weapons of any kind. They are latent in the roof of her mouth, and even when extended for her defense, appear to those who are not acquainted with her to be weak and contemptible, yet her wounds, however small, are decisive and fatal. She is solitary and associates with her kind only when it is necessary for their preservation. Her poison is at once the necessary means of digesting her food, and certain destruction of her enemies. The power of fascination attributed to her by a generous construction resembles America. Those who look steadily upon her are delighted and involuntarily advance toward her. She is frequently found with thirteen rattles, and they increase yearly. She is beautiful in youth, and her beauty increases with her age; her tongue is blue and forked as lightning.

Hillsdale Whig Standard (Hillsdale, Michigan) Jul 3, 1849

Stand as an Anvil

June 11, 2012

Image from Catholic Spiritual Direction

From the Missionary.

Stand as an Anvil, When it is Beaten Down.
[St. Ignatius to St. Polycarp: both Martyrs.]

“Stand, like an anvil,” when the stroke
Of stalwart men falls fierce and fast;
Storms but more deeply root the oak,
Whose brawny arms embrace the blast.

“Stand, like an anvil,” when the sparks
Fly far and wide, a fiery shower;
Virtue and truth must still be marks,
Where malice proves its want of power.

“Stand, like an anvil,” when the sound
Of ponderous hammers pains the ear;
Thine, but the still and stern rebound
Of the great heart that cannot fear.

“Stand, like an anvil.” Noise and heat
Are of earth and die with time,
The soul, like God, its source and seat,
Is solemn, still, serene, sublime.

Riverside, St. Barnabas’s Day, ’49. G.W.D.

Hillsdale Whig Standard (Hillsdale, Michigan) Jul 17, 1849

They Say

April 15, 2012


“They say,” tells that which is not true, at least three quarters of the time. He is about the worst authority you can produce to support the credibility of your statement. Scarcely was there ever a suspicious report put in circulation, but this Mr. They Say was the author of it; and he always escapes responsibility and detection, because, living just nowhere, he can never be found.

Who said that Mr. E., the merchant, was supposed to be in a failing condition? Why, “they say” so.

On what authority do they affirm that neighbor F. has been in bad company? Why, “they say” so.

Is it a fact that Miss G. is not so chaste and circumspect as she should be? — Why, “they say” so.

Plague on this Mr. They Say; he is a half-brother to that Mr. Nobody, who always does all the mischief, and who lives nowhere, but in the invention of those who, undeserving respect themselves, are desirous to pull down others to their own level. We always suspect the truth of a report which comes from the authority of “They Say.”

The Adams Sentinel (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Aug 27, 1849

Pigeon Soup

April 14, 2012


The following remarkable recipe for making Homeopathic soup, is attributed by the Brooklyn Advertiser to the late Dr. Post, of New York:

Take two starved pigeons, hang them by a string in the kitchen window, so that the sun will cast the shadow of the pigeons into an iron pot already on the fire, and which will hold ten gallons of water, boil the shadows over a slow fire for ten hours, and then give the patient one drop in a glass of water every ten days.

The Adams Sentinel (Gettsyburg, Pennsylvania) Jul 30, 1849

American Aristocracy

March 21, 2012


Of all the notable things on earth,
The queerest one is pride of birth
Among our ” fierce democracies!”
A bridge across a hundred years,
Without a prop to save from sneers,
Not even a couple of rotten peers;
A thing for laughter, fleers and jeers,
Is American aristocracy!

English and Irish, French and Spanish,
German, Italian, Dutch and Danish,
Crossing their veins until they vanish
In one conglomeration!
So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed,
No heraldry Harvey will ever succeed
In finding the circulation.

Depend upon it, my snobbish friend,
Your family thread you can’t ascend,
Without good reason to apprehend
You may find it waxed at the other end,
By some plebeian vocation!
Or, worse than that, your boasted line,
May end in a loop of stronger twine,
That choked some worthy relation.

Tioga Eagle (Wellsboro, Pennsylvania) Jul 4, 1849

American Mind

March 20, 2012

Image from Impressions of Niagra


[The following complimentary tribute to the active intellect of our country, is from the pen of Lady EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY, and was written since her recent tour through the Northern States.]

Wand’rers! whose feet, like mine, ne’r press’d before
This proud, magnificiently – various shore —
Wand’rers! who speed from many a distant zone
To gaze on Nature’s transatlantic throne —
Ne’er lightly view the thousand scenes sublime
Of great America’s resplendant clime,
But still, in thoughtful mood’s observant care,
Weigh well the many mingling glories there,
Since all the loftier wonders of the land
Are most admired — when best ye understand!
It’s a gracious study for the soul,
As, part by part, the Heav’n stamp’d leaves unroll; —
Not only all-majestic Nature here
Speaks to each kindling thought, but far and near
A large and mighty meaning seems to lurk,
A glorious mind is every where at work !
A bold, grand spirit rules and reigns around,
And sanctifies the common air and ground ;
And glorifies the lowliest herb and stone
With conscious tints and touches of its own ;
A spirit ever flashing back the sun,
That scorns each prize while aught is to be won ;
More boundless than the prairie’s wondrous sweep,
Or the old Atlantic’s long resounding deep,
And more luxuriant than the forest’s crowd
Of patriarch trees, by weightiest foliage bow’d —
More rich than California’s teeming mould,
Whose hoarded sunbeams laugh to living gold —
More soaring far than the immemorial hills —
More fresh and flowing than their streams and rills —
That mind of quenchless energy and power,
Which springs from strength to strength, hour after hour —
Man’s glorious mind in its most glorious mood,
That seems for aye, on every side to brood,
In this empurpled and exultant land,
So gladly bow’d beneath its bright command —
Man’s glorious mind on its most glorious march —
High spinning earth, like Heav’n’s own rainbow arch.
That soul,  that mind, ’tis every where reveal’d!
It crowns the steep, it gilds the cultured field,
It charms the wild, and paves the rushing stream,
And scarce allows the sun a vagrant beam;
It tames the rugged soil of rocks, and flings
From seas to seas the shadow of its wings,
(And Time and Space in that great shadow rest,
And watch to serve their ruler-sons’ behest.)
And still its growing, gathering influence spreads,
And still abroad its own great life it sheds
O’er mount and lake, o’er cataract, field and flood,
O’er rock, and cave, and isle, o’er plain and wood,
It lives, it lightens, and in might inspires
Each separate scene with fresh creative fires.
Where’er it moves a Wondering World awakes,
And still all nature’s face its likeness takes;
It quickens s—, and kindles and pervades
Her startled deserts and receding shades,
Her mightiest solitudes and paths unknown,
Her hidden shrines and well-springs pure and lone —
Hung — as The Heavens are hung above them all,
And holding their sublimest powers in thrall !

Tioga Eagle (Wellsboro, Pennsylvania) Dec 5, 1849

*This version is slightly different than the one found online. Maybe it had been reworked after this was first published.

The real traveler is born, not made. The urge to wander is close kin to that which drives the explorer out beyond the end of the trail and like it gives peace and rest only in assailing action. There is something terrifying to the homekeeping about the genuine traveler, and woe unto such as falls under his domination to be dragged everywhere and nowhere, only to be turned about and started elsewhere. The species is usually masculine, regardless of sex, and when the wanderer chances to be a woman there is likely to be a rare excellence about the accomplishments, the spirit in the doing, and especially about the records kept for the timid at home. Such is the case with Lady Emmeline Stuart-Wortley and her narratives of American, Spanish and Syrian journeys.

It was in the spring of the year 1849 that Lady Emmeline and her daughter Victoria set out for America to begin the travels here described. The mother was the second daughter of John Henry, fifth Duke of Rutland, and the widow of Charles Stuart-Wortley, second son of the first Lord Warncliffe. The daughter was soon to become one of Queen Victoria’s maids of honor. The one was already a confirmed traveler, at home in Russia, Holland, Italy and the Near East; the other was a child of twelve years whose goings and comings were shaped by a will not her own. A notable and interesting pair to view America at the end of that Fabulous Forties.

They landed in New York after a passage of eleven days, took one glance at the “ever teeming, tumultuous Broadway,” and then hurried toward Niagra Falls, the mecca of all Europeans in those days. This was the beginning of an itinerary that led along the eastern coast from Boston to Washington, turned westward down the Ohio to St. Louis and southward on the tawny Mississippi to New Orleans; a few days in Mobile, a few more at the capital of Mexico, a turning back to Havana and then into the flood that ran gold-thirsty across the Isthmus toward California. They did not enter the land of gold, but went down to Peru as the farthest point of interest before retracing their steps to Jamaica and back to old world wanderings in Spain and Syria.

The original letters from which Mrs. Cust has constructed the American portion of her narrative have long been in print. They were first published in 1851 under the title “Travels in the United States,” and were gratefully received by a self-conscious people hungry for commendation. A few bits from the younger traveler, however, have been added and the whole woven into a running story heavily sprinkled with quotations from the “diaries, letters and published books.” Strange to say, the original charm has not been lost in the process. Mrs. Cust has selected well to preserve the best comments on the American scene, and in the added narratives on Spain and Syria she has given us a chance to follow these delightful observers still farther.

The main interest of the American reader probably will be in the keen observations made on our means of travel, our thriving cities and our ways of life in those spacious days of national youth. Few salient features escaped them. The floating palaces on the rivers which, under driving competition, carried passengers for less than one-sixth of a penny per mile, the tow-boats almost hidden by the freighted crafts they propeller, the wrecked steamboats, product of collision and explosion, all told buoyant, careless material growth and the attendant growing pains. Yet amid such hurry the railway trains checked speed to allow a lady to cross the tracks and stopped entirely to allow a worried bridegroom to go back to seek the lost bride.

“Eager and go-ahead as they are,” burst out the good lady, “the Americans are the most philosophically patient travelers in the world.”

The cities showed startling evidences of too rapid growth. New York seemed  “a vortex of sound and fury,” Boston a “strange chaos of commerce” where great ships leaned “as if tired” against crowding warehouses; Washington, filled with Negroes and pigs, “would be a beautiful city if it were built”; St. Louis, recently swept by fire and disease, was rising so rapidly that buildings seemed every morning to be about a story higher than when left the preceding night, and New Orleans, smothered with cotton, had a touch of “Spanish grace and Parisian fashion” mingled with an American push and energy manifest at wharf and slave market.

The trip across the Isthmus gave opportunity to see the gulf rush. Dauntless men, fighting river, jungle, disease and passion, yet ever cheerful with their “Ho! for California”; yet something about them seemed to indicate that they went to build a civilization more than to find gold. A royal lady, meanwhile, holding her own with them!

These are [examples?] of American customs — mixed bathing at the beaches, the use of iced drinks, anti-foreign sentiments, etc. — that round out the picture and give the work historical value. And there are, of course, the equally entertaining narratives of journeys in Spain and Syria for those who wish to follow a genuine traveler back to the old world. It is a book worth reading for pleasure or for information.

(“Wanderers,” by Mrs. Henry Cust; New York Coward-McCann)

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Feb 17, 1929

Title: Travels in the United States, etc: during 1849 and 1850
Author: Lady Emmeline Stuart-Wortley
Publisher: Harper & brothers, 1851
(Google ebook LINK)

*I didn’t find the Wanderers  version by Cust online.


In looking over the list of our Contributors for the past year, in order to count our strength in the present, we find that death has taken one the number, whose last contribution to the pages of this work was written from Marsailles, prelusive of those wanderings in the East which have ended so fatally. We allude to the death of Lady Emmeline Stuart-Wortley, whose poems and lively prose sketches so frequently appeared in these pages. Her Ladyship’s death was characteristic of her active energetic nature. In May last, whilst riding in the neighbourhood of Jerusalem, Lady Emmeline had the misfortune to have her leg fractured by the kick of a mule. Notwithstanding the weakened state of her Ladyship’s constitution, she persisted in undertaking the journey from Beyrout to Aleppo, returning by an unfrequented road across the Lebanon. Lady Emmeline reached Beyrout on the 26th of October; but, in spite of the unremitting attention of Dr. Saquet, the French government physician, and two other medical gentlemen, her frame was so weakened and exhausted by the excessive fatigue of the journey, that she gradually sunk and expired on the night of the 29th. Her Ladyship was an authoress of repute, and had probably traveled more than any other lady of her distinguished birth. A daughter of the present Duke of Rutland, her Ladyship married, in 1831, the Hon. Charles Stuart-Wortley (brother of the late Lord Wharncliffe), who died in 1844. Generous, kindly, and genial, she will be long remembered and regretted by those who had the pleasure of knowing her.

Published: 1856
Page 41

The Rights of Women

March 20, 2012

Image from Assumption College


“The rights of women,” what are they?
The right to labor and to pray,
The right to watch while others sleep,
The right o’er others’ woes to weep;
The right to succor in distress,
The right while others curse, to bless;
The right to love whom others scorn,
The right to comfort all that mourn;
The right to shed new joy on earth,
The right to feel the soul’s high worth,
The right to lead the soul to God,
Along the path her Saviour trod —
The path of meekness and of love,
The path of faith that leads above,
The path of patience under wrong,
The path in which the weak gets strong;
Such women’s rights, and God will bless
And crown their champion’s with success.

Tioga Eagle (Wellsboro, Pennsylvania) Mar 28, 1849

Rena Goff animated image from the Historic Cooking School website


Permit us to say, to those mothers who interest themselves in the education of their children, be assiduous early to implant domestic tastes in the minds of your daughters. Let your little girl set by your side with her needle. Do not put her from you when you discharge those employments which are for the comfort of the family. Let her take part in them as fast as her feeble hand is capable. Teach her that this will be her province when she becomes a woman. Inspire her with a desire to make all around her comfortable and happy. Instruct her in the rudiments of that science whose results are so beautiful. Teach her that not selfish gratification, but the good of a household, the improvement of even the humblest dependent, is the business of her sex. When she questions you, repay her curiosity with clear and loving explanations. When you walk out to call on your friends, sometimes take her with you; especially, if you visit the aged, or go on errands of mercy to the sick and poor, let her be your companion. Allow her to sit by the side of the sufferer, and learn those nursing services which afford relief to him.

Associate her with you. Make her your friend. Purify and perfect your own example for her sake. And while you mingle with domestic training, and with the germ of benevolence, a knowledge of the world of books, to which it will be a sweet privilege to introduce her, should not be able not to add a single fashionable accomplishment, still be continually thankful in shielding her from the contagion of evil example.

Image from the Dickinson Journal


Trust not to uncertain riches, but prepare yourself for emergency in life. Learn to work, and not be dependent upon servants to make your bread, sweep your floors, and darn your stockings. Above all things, do not esteem too lightly those honorable young men who sustain themselves and their parents by the work of their own hands, while you care for, and receive into your company those lazy, idle popinjays, who never lift a finger to help themselves so long as they can keep body and soul together, and get sufficient to live in fashion.

Young women, remember this, and instead of sounding the purses of your lovers, and examining the cut of their coats, look into their hearts and habits. Mark if they have trades, and can depend upon themselves; see if they have minds which will lead them to look above a butterfly existence. Talk not of the beautiful white skin and the soft delicate hand — the fine appearance of the young gentlemen. Let not these foolish considerations engross your thoughts.

Tioga Eagle (Wellsboro, Pennsylvania) Mar 28, 1849

A Hundred Years Ago

March 18, 2012

Image from Votaries of Horror


Where are the birds that sang
A hundred years ago?
The flowers that all in beauty sprang,
A hundred years ago? —
The lips that smiled,
The eyes that wild
In flashes shone
Soft eyes upon —
Where O where are lips and eyes
The maiden’s smile, the lover’s sighs,
That were, so long ago?

Who peopled all the city streets
A hundred years ago?
Who filled the church with faces meek,
A hundred years ago?
The sneering tale,
Of sister frail,
The plot that work’d
Another’s hurt —
Where, O where are plots an sneers,
To a poor man’s hopes the rich man’s fears
That were so long ago?

Where are the graves where dead men slept
A hundred years ago?
Who whilst living, oft times wept
A hundred years ago? —
By other men,
They knew not then
Their lands are tilled,
Their homes are filled,
Ye Nature then was just as gay
And bright the sun shone as to day,
A hundred years ago?

Tioga Eagle (Wellsboro, Pennsylvania) Jan 31, 1849

Songs for Henry Clay

October 19, 2011

Image from Elektratig blog

The Workingmen’s Song.

Times won’t be right its plain to see,
Till Tyler runs his race,
But then we’ll have a better man
To put into his place;
For now we’ll rouse with might and main,
And work, and work, away;
We’ll work, and work, and work, and work,
And put in HENRY CLAY,


For now we’ll rouse with might and main,
And work, and work away;
We’ll work, and work, and work, and work,
and put in HENRY CLAY.

The Farmers want good times again
To sell their wheat and pork,
And so to put in HENRY CLAY,
They’re going right to work;
They’ll plough, and sow, and reap, and mow,
And thresh, and thresh away;
They’ll thresh, and thresh, and thresh, and thresh,
And vote for HENRY CLAY,
They’ll plough and sow, etc., etc.

The Laboring Men they want more work
And higher wages too,
And so they’ll go for HENRY CLAY,
With better times in view;
They’ll saw, and chop, and grub, and dig,
And shovel, and shovel away;
And shovel, and shovel, and shovel, and shovel,
And vote for HENRY CLAY,
They’ll saw, and chop, etc., etc.

The Weavers too will go to work,
They’ll make us all the Cloth we want,
If they can have fair play;
They’ll reel, and spool, and warp, and wind,
And weave, and weave away;
They’ll weave, and weave, and weave, and weave,
And vote for HENRY CLAY,
They’ll reel and spool, etc., etc.

We want no Clothing Ready made,
From England or from France;
We’ve Tailors here who know their trade,
They ought to have a chance;
They’ll cut, and baste, and hem, and press,
And stitch, and stitch away;
They’ll stitch, and stitch, and stitch, and stitch,
And vote for HENRY CLAY,
They’ll cut and baste, etc., etc.

The Coopers know  when Farmers thrive,
Their trade is always best,
And so they’ll go with one accord
For Harry of the West.
They’ll dress, and raise, and truss, and hoop,
And hoop, and hoop away;
They’ll hoop, and hoop, and hoop, and hoop,
And vote for HENRY CLAY,
They’ll dress, and raise, etc., etc.

The Hatters do not want to see
Their kettles standing dry,
And so they’ll go for HENRY CLAY,
And then the Fur will fly,
They’ll nap, and block, and color, and bind,
And finish, and finish away;
They’ll finish, and finish, and finish, and finish,
And vote for HENRY CLAY,
They’ll nap and block, etc., etc.

Shoemakers too, with a right good will,
Will join the working throng,
And what they do for HENRY CLAY,
They’ll do both neat and strong;
They’ll cut, and crimp, and last, and stitch,
And peg and ball away —
They’ll ball, and ball, and ball, and ball,
And vote for HENRY CLAY,
They’ll cut and crimp, etc., etc.

The Blacksmiths too ‘ll roll up their sleeves,
Their sledges they wilt swing,
And at the name of HENRY CLAY,
They’ll make their anvils ring,
They’ll blow, and strike, and forge, and weld,
And hammer, and hammer away;
They’ll hammer, & hammer, & hammer & hammer,
And vote for HENRY CLAY,
They’ll blow, and strike, etc., etc.

The Tanners too will lend a hand,
When skinning time begins;
They are a hardy noble band,
And live by tanning skins;
They’ll bait the Softs, and break the Hards,
And flesh and curry away;
They’ll curry, and curry, and curry, and curry,
And vote for HENRY CLAY,
They’ll bait the softs, etc., etc.

The Potters too are all for CLAY,
For ’tis in CLAY they work;
And all they want is ready pay,
To buy their bread and pork;
They’ll glaze their pots and fire their kilns,
And burn, and burn away —
They’ll burn, and burn, and burn, and burn,
To vote for HENRY CLAY.

The Carpenters, a noble band,
Will then have work to do —
New Barns and Houses through the land,
They’ll raise both strong and new —
They’ll line and score, and scribe and bore,
And brace and build away —
And build, and build, and build, and build,
And vote for HENRY CLAY,
They’ll line and score, etc., etc.

And thus we’ll work, and thus we’ll sing,
Till Tyler’s race is run;
And then we’ll have to fill his place,
Kentucky’s favorite son;
For now we’ll rouse with might and main,
And work, and work away;
We’ll work, and work, and work, and work,
And put in HENRY CLAY,
For now we’ll rouse, etc., etc.

The Ohio Repository (Canton, Ohio) Mar 7, 1844

For the Ohio Repository.

Our Harry Is Coming.
Air — “The Campbels are Coming.

Our Harry is coming, oh Matty beware!
Our Harry is coming, oh Locos take care!
Our Harry is coming, the gallant and free,
He’s coming, he’s coming, oh Matty beware!

Columbia’s shout of ecstacy,
The glorious shouts ring far and free;
Thundering abroad — sublime if rude,
A Nation’s noble gratitude,
Our Harry is coming, &c.

He comes — but in pacific pride;
No battle-band begirts his side,
No hoarse war-drum booms on the wind —
But all is peace and love combined,
Our Harry is coming, &c.

He comes the sacred oath to swear,
Then seated in that awful chair;
Higher than throne, — like Washington —
The laurels on his brow he’s won,
Our Harry is coming, &c.

Our Country’s sav’d — new honors lent,
When CLAY, the People’s President,
Will then to right the helm of state,
And the Republic renovate.
Our Harry is coming, &c.

Canton, March, 1844.   AMELLS.

The Ohio Repository (Canton, Ohio) Mar 14, 1844

The Mill Boy of the Slashes.
Tune — ‘Washing Day,’ or ‘Lucy Long.’

Cheer up, my lads, we’re on the way,
Press onward for the prize;
For at the name of HENRY CLAY,
What glorious hopes arise.

Then hast the day, then clear the way,
As on our hero dashes;
Away! Away! for HARRY CLAY,
“The Mill Boy of the Slashes.”

From East to West — from North to South,
The mails bring cheering news;
The Softs are all down in the mouth;
The Hards have got the blues.

Then haste the day, etc.

Look out, my boys, the Locos know
That truth with  us is found;
and yet with lies they try to show,
That they are gaining ground;

Then hast the day, etc.

Our foes with wonder and with shame,
Now on their forces call;
Then spread abroad our leader’s fame,
Let cliques and cabals fall.

Then haste the day, etc.

The nation’s hope is on him set;
His name’s on every tongue;
Around the land in councils met,
His noble deeds are sung.

Then haste the day, etc.

These stubborn Lokies feel the rod;
Van Buren’s in a fright,
And poor Hard money crawfish To?,
Had rather run than fight.

Then haste the day, etc.

The Ohio Repository (Canton, Ohio) Apr 11, 1844

Ex-Speaker Polk of Tennessee.
TUNE — Dandy Jim of Caroline

Come listen Whigs and Locos all,
Your kind attention here I call,
And mark the burthen of the glee,
Ex-Speaker Polk of Tennessee —
But hark! the People rising say,
He’s not the man to conquer Clay,
This is the substance of their rhyme,
“Clay first, Clay last, Clay all the time.”

Polk’s choice occasioned some surprise,
Good Democrats rolled up their eyes,
Our Candidate, pary, who is he?
Why James *R. Polk of Tennessee —
But hark! &c.

But soon their vast excitement o’er,
They see, what ne’er was seen before,
The best selection that could be,
Ex-Speaker Polk of Tennessee —
But hark! &c.

And then commences nous verrons
To make enthusiasm strong,
Uphold; ye Loco clique, says he,
Ex-Speaker Polk of Tennessee —
But hark! &c.

Fall down before a better man
Than even little Matty Van,
Buchanan too must bow the knee
To Ex-Speaker Polk of Tennessee —
But hark! &c.

Now, not content with this display,
They steal John Tyler’s protege,
Annexing Texas, as you see,
To James K. Polk of Tennessee —
But hark! &c.

Though now a Champion of Free Trade,
Once pon a time a vote you made,
To tax our coffee and our tea,
Ex-Speaker Polk of Tennessee —
But hark! &c.

When last you took the field with Jones,
You heard the People’s angry tones,
A more indignant note you’ll hear,
Before November’s ides appear —
For hark! the People rising say,
Their highest hope is Harry Clay,
This is the substance of their rhyme,
“Clay first, Clay last, Clay all the time.”


*So was the name blazoned on the Loco Foco banners when first announced.

Bangor Daily Whig and Courier (Bangor, Maine) Jun 20, 1844

Something Rich — Truth by Accident.

Locofocoism does not seem to florish well in poetry, as the muses have been so long engaged in the worthy and truthful cause of the patriotic Whigs, that when compelled to do service for Locofocoism will indirectly sift in the truth. —

We were greatly amused last evening in looking over a song in the Democrat, that will be generally circulated this morning. We hope our friends will secure a copy as a poetical and political curiosity. It is decidedly rich, and we think the editor of the Democrat must have had no little grass in his boots to have admitted the truth telling little witch!

Here is the song and the reader will please read the italicised letters first.

For the Democrat.

TUNE. — Old Rosin the Bow.

Come all ye young Hickories rally!
Let’s shoulder to shoulder unite,
Against the coon forces we’ll sally,
Young Hickory” leads in the fight.


Young Hickory leads in the fight, (Repeat.)
Against the coon forces we’ll rally,
“Young Hickory” leads in the fight.

We’ll raise up our Hickory poles, hearties,
In Honor of Tennessee’s son,
Let us show him that firmly each heart is
Leagued together to use up the coon,


Leagued together to use up the coon, (repeat)
Let us show him that each heart is
Leagued together to use up the coon.

The feds of their strength loud and bragging,
Renewing of ’40 the trash,
In November the coons we’ll be flogging,
Until he shall fly from the lash.


Mark his hide with each blow that you deal him
Place the licks on his carcase with skill,
Hurrah! then, e’en “Huysen” can’t heal him,
Amen, with a hearty good will.

Polk and Dallas inscribed on our banners,
Shall to victory marshal our way;
Be up then — let feds shout hozannas,
Defeated they’ll be with their Clay.


Bangor Daily Whig and Courier (Bangor, Maine) Jun 25, 1844

Image from the National Archives website

From the Whig Standard.


In the times of the Revolution;
While yet the land was young;
Heavy the lot of the hardy few,
But the will was stout and strong,
Of those who fought with Washington;
On their fields of fame they died,
All true men, like you men,
Remember them with pride.

At daybreak at old Trenton,
On Monmouth’s sandy plain,
In the swamp of the Yellow Santeo,
On the waves of old Champlain,
Fought the Whigs of the Resolution,
With hearts unchanging still,
And we men — if free men —
So must we fight — we will!

and some of these remain, boys!
Through all that sturdy storm,
Bent, and worn out, and aged,
But hearts still young and warm;
They should know what are true principles,
These men with locks of gray,
They are few men — but true men —
And they vote with us for Clay.

Honor unto the aged,
The old true-hearted brave!
Theirs be a free and pleasant death,
And a free and quiet grave;
And still we’ll protect the principles
For which they toiled so long,
The Whigs of the Revolution
Who fought when the land was young.

From the Whig Standard.

TUNE — Yankee Doodle.

The Locos met at Baltimore,
To make their nominations,
With tempers sour’d, and feeling sore,
And humbled expectations.
But Locofocos keep it up,
Heed not the Whig’s rejoicing,
Don’t yield the day to HENRY CLAY

They felt that VAN, was not the man,
To lead them on to glory,
And should they pass, to LEWIS CASS,
‘Twould end in the same story.
But Locofocos keep it up, &c., &c.

JOHNSON they knew, would never do,
BUCHANAN’s chance was small, sir,
They fear’d each vote, would but denote,
They’d make no choice at all, sir.
But Locofocos keep it up, &c., &c.

Though this they fear’d, they persevered,
Seven times the vote was taken!
On the eighth, for a joke, they started POLK,
Hoping to save their bacon;
Then Locofocos keep it up, &c., &c.

JOHNSON withdrew, BUCHANAN too,
VAN BUREN flew the track, sir,
All own they’re beat, POLK wins the heat,
Though a fourth rate party hack, sir,
But Locofocos keep it up &c.

The Loco’s now were run aground,
To find another man, as
Weak as POLK, but at last they found
His match in GEORGE M. DALLAS,
Then Locofocos keep it up, &c.

Then for POLK and DALLAS go it strong,
Each Locofoco hearty,
With guns, and drums, and noise, and song,
Let’s cheer our drooping party,
Ye Locofocos keep it up, &c.

We’ve done our best pray be content,
We’ve made a nomination,
And POLK and DALLAS we present
For the people’s acceptation.
Then Locofocos keep it up, &c.

John Jones says TYLER was by law
The “second: nominated,
That POLK, being third, he must ‘withdraw,’
‘Or the party’ll be defeated.’
John Jones and Tyler keep it up, &c.

The people thank you, gentlemen,
But its far from their intentions,
To vote for the third and fourth rate men
You’ve named in your conventions!
For loud and long, like thunder strong,
The people’s voice is rising,
And ’twill be given before High Heaven,

South Port American (South Port, Wisconsin) Jun 29, 1844

From the New York Tribune.


He wears no crown upon that brow which gleams in Freedom’s van,
Where every god has set his seal to show the world a man;
Nor bears he in his trusty hand the warrior’s spear and glaive,
Whose harvests are the falling ranks that burden ruin’s grave.

But prouder than the proudest king, whose million vassals bow,
He wears the wreath a Nation’s hand has twined upon his brow;
And peerless o’er his fallen foes with flaming plume and crest,
He shines among a Nation’s stars the brightest and the best.

His name is not a sculptured thing, where old Renown has reared
Her marble in the wilderness, by smoke of battle seared;
But graven on life-leaping hearts where Freedom’s banners wave,
It gleams to bid the tyrant back, and loose the fettered slave.

His deeds are not of blood and wrong, where ruth, with iron hand,
Has yoked the stormy steeds of War, to desolate the land —
But ever in the hour of need, when Danger’s summons came,
He lent the thunder of his word, the halo of his name!

Around the hearths and altars where his country’s gods are shrined,
His heart has yearned for Freedom’s weal, with Freedom’s toil his mind;
And when from other lands oppressed the captive’s wail has rung,
His soul went forth in Freedom’s strength, with Freedom’s fire his tongue.

Above the altar’s of the Greek, and o’er Bolivia’s fane,
His name, “Deliverer,” is stampt upon the broken chain.
And from those old and glorious isles that gem the AEgean sea,
The sons of Spartans hail in song the Champion of the Free.

And now, when age in on his heart, and dimness in his eye,
He wanes not with the fitful lights that darken in the sky,
But prouder still in name and fame, with flaming plume and crest,
He shines among a Nation’s stars the brightest and the best!


Huron Reflector ( Norwalk, Ohio) Sep 4, 1849

Look Out for the Engine

October 7, 2011


With lungs of fire, and ribs of steel,
With sighing valve, and groaning wheel,
With startling scream and giant stroke,
With showers of sparks and clouds of smoke,
The iron steel the train is bringing;
So look out while the bell is ringing!

The gazing, gaping crowd stands back —
Will ye be crushed, or clear the track?
Now, all aboard and off again!
The drones behind can’t reach the train;
They stumble where the switch is swinging —
So look out while the bell is ringing!

Just so the engine of reform
Rolls on, through sunshine and through storm,
O’er kings and sceptres, crowns and thrones,
Through sleepy crowds of idle drones;
‘Tis freedom’s song the mass are singing —
So look out while the bell is ringing!

The slave will doff his yoke and chain,
The drunkard will not drink again,
The soldier throw his sword away,
We see the dawn of that bright day;
Glad news the harnessed lightning bringing —
So look out while the bell is ringing!

Star and Banner (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Jan 19, 1849