Posts Tagged ‘Parodies’

The Man With the Hoe

May 19, 2010

The Man with the Hoe
by Edwin Markham

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes.
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this —
More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed —
More filled with signs and portents for the soul —
More fraught with menace to the universe.
What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Time’s tragedy is in the aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned, and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Powers that made the world.
A protest that is also a prophecy.
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream,
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands
How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings —
With those who shaped him to the thing he is —
When this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world.
After the silence of the centuries?

Image from Shorpy.


(By Robert E. Jenkins, of the Chicago Bar.)

Note — Markham’s “Man With the Hoe” is an insult to every farmer and every farmer’s son in America. It draws a picture that has no foundation in fact. It is utterly vicious, in that it degrades honorable labor and promotes contempt for work and dissatisfaction, unrest and despair where there should be hope, happiness and courage. It and all similar woeful wailings are worse than worthless trash. — R.E. Jenkins.

The man with the hoe of whom I shall write,
The American man who stands forth in his might;
The American king, where hard, honest toil
Sheds halo of glory o’er tillers of soil.

This man with the hoe, the typical man,
Of the husbandman noble, and not under ban,
But free to do right, with open, fair chance,
To their own and their children’s best fortunes advance.

This man with the hoe, foundation of wealth,
Supplies grain for the trader and food to save health;
He drives away famine and want and distress,
And ushers in plenty all people to bless.

This man with the hoe is type of the best
Of our national life in the east or the west.
The ideal man of the people en masses,
The pride of Columbia, the yeomanry class.

This man with the hoe moves well in his place,
With a good manly stride and a smile on his face,
With strong, brawny arms his implement wields,
Nor leans on his hoe to gaze ’round o’er the fields.

This man with the hoe is settled for life
With the maid with the pail for his comely young wife;
They earn their own home, they toil and they strive,
They bear trials with courage and hopefully thrive.

This man with the hoe keeps up with the age,
He reads through the evening the works of a sage,
Or a tri-weekly paper or book of the farm,
Till wisdom and knowledge both give his life charm.

This man with the hoe is father of boys,
Six fine, manly sons share his cares and his joys;
They work on the farm as farmer’s boys do,
Then attend school in winter when working is through.

This man with the hoe was faithful to God,
Was sustained from above as life’s journey he trod,
Took his children to church and taught them to trust,
To observe all the laws and in dealings be just.

This man with the hoe saw his children succeed,
Grow up and go forth different callings to lead,
Saw the lawyer, the merchant, the farmer contented,
The pulpit and platform and press represented.

This man with the hoe and his true, loving wife,
Blessed the world and were each blessed with long, happy life;
Was honored with office and places of trust,
The reward of the man who is earnest and just.

The man with the hoe, the man with the hoe,
You can find him abounding wherever you go,
One knowing him not has wailed o’er his lot,
And drenched him with tears, though he needed them not.

Who in our country most laurels has won,
The barefoot from the farm or the millionaire’s son?
This one in his ease fails high purpose to press,
The other necessity drives to success.

These men of the hoe, look on them with pride!
In all trades and professions through the land far and wide
The farmer’s boy heads, Hard work made him strong,
Take the hoe for his emblem! Enshrine it in song.

Oh man of the hoe, oh man of the plane,
Oh man of the brake on the swift rolling train,
Man of the toilers whoever you be,
Your labor is patent of true dignity.

The pess’mists standard for men is all wrong,
He rails at the wealthy and envies the strong;
‘Tis manhood, not money, we should prize here on earth,
What a man is, not has, along measures true worth.

Most sons of the rich and all sons of ease,
Who lazily live and seek themselves but to please,
Are failures indeed. For all life is strife
And worth only to live is the strenuous life.

Shame on the teachers of hopeless despair,
Who call man a brute, crushed down under care;
Who degrade and debase in their doctrine of woe,
The real, manly, triumphant, good man with the hoe.

The Nebraska State Journal (Lincoln, Nebraska) Jul 5, 1899


Its Author Received the Tribute That Parody Pays to Genius.

Kansas City Journal: No publication of recent date has evoked such widespread and varied discussion as Prof. Edwin Markham’s “The Man With the Hoe.” Markham took as his text Millet’s picture, showing an uncouth peasant leaning on his hoe and staring into a blank world with eyes deadened to all intelligence. There can be no question as to the power of the poem from a literary standpoint. All the critics admit that. But there is hot disputation over the question of whether or not the painter and the author have made a true characterization of a class of humans really existing in the civilized world. The poem degrades the man with the hoe to a level with the beasts of the field, and the two most striking verses are here repeated:

“Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes.
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?

“O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream,
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?”

One thing, however, is sustained by every American critic. There is no such being in America as is here pictured. If intended to apply to the American agricultural laborer we must agree with Mr. Ralph E. Jenkins of Chicago, who has contributed an article holding up to admiration the “qualities of self-respect, independence and intelligence to be found in the American rural classes.” With considerable heat Mr. Jenkins says: Markham’s ‘Man With the Hoe’ is an insult to every farmer and every farmer’s son in America. It draws a picture that has no foundation in fact. It is utterly vicious, in that it degrades honorable labor and promotes contempt for work and dissatisfaction, unrest and despair where there should be hope, happiness and courage. It and all similar woeful wailings are worse than worthless trash.”

As is true of every poem worth remembering, many imitations have been made of Markham’s verses and not a few parodies. In the Chicago Time-Herald Mr. S.E. Kiser gives us the picture of a drunken man hanging to a post, together with some lines, from which we quote as follows:

“Bowed by a weight of fiery stuff, he leans
Against the hitching post and gazes ’round!
Besotted emptiness is in his face,
He bears a load that still may get him down
Who made him dull to shame and dead to pride,
A thing that cares not and that never thinks,
Filthy, profane, a consort for the pig?
Who loosened and let down that stubbly jaw?
Whence came the scum adhering to those lips?
What was it clogged and turned away his brain?

“O masters, lords and rulers in our land,
Must this foul solecism still
Be tolerated in an age when men
Grasp power from the circumamorent air
And speak through space across the roaring gulfs?
Must this vile thing be left to wed at will
And propagate his idiotic spawn,
A shame upon the age in which we live,
A curse on generations to be born?”

And then comes Hester A. Benedict, in the Pacific Ensign, denying that “Down all the stretch of hell to its last gulf, there is no shape more terrible than this.” She holds that lower yet is the woman who must consort with this bestial thing, saying:

“Look into that ‘last gulf,’ O poet! I pray thee,
Down, down where its nether cave leans,
And find there — God help us — a ‘shape’ to gain-say thee,
A shape that affrighteth the fiends.
And listen, O listen! For through all the thunder
A voice crieth — heavy with woe —
‘I, I am the woman, the woman that’s under
The heel of “The Man With the Hoe.”‘

“She is the begotten of derelict ages,
Of systems senescent the flaw,
She is the forgotten of singers and sages —
The creature of lust and of law.
The tale of the ‘Terror’ — the ox’s brute brother,
Can never be told overmuch,
But she is the vassal, and she is the mother,
The thrice-accursed mother of such.

“Look up from that last gulf, thou newest evangel,
Thou builder of ladders for men,
Look up from the pleading, pale face of the angel
That wooeth a prince of the pen.
And sometimes, a little, tho’ half the world wonder,
And critics cry high and cry low —
Sing out for the woman — the woman that’s under
The heel of ‘The Man With the Hoe.'”

Of the parodies that have been written perhaps none is better calculated to affect our risibilities — particularly at this season when the voice of the lawn mower is heard in the land — than a bit given without the name of the author in the Chicago Tribune:

“Bowed by the meanness of the act, he leans
Upon the handle, gazes on the ground.
With empty stomach — ’tis but 5 a.m. —
And on his back naught but an undershirt.
Who made him dead to other people’s rights,
A thing that cares not how much woe he makes,
Stolid and selfish brother to the ox;
His is the hand that shoves that thing along
Whose loud, infernal racket breaks the sleep!
Is this thing, made in likeness of a man,
To have dominion o’er the neighborhood;
To end the tired dreamer’s morning nap;
And shall no victim have the right to shoot him?
Is this the dream of all the ages past,
For whose sake bends the spacious firmament?
Down all the block to its remotest house
There is no dread so terrible as this —
More potent to o’erwhelm the soul with wrath,
More filled with portent of a day’s unrest —
More fraught with emphasized profanity!

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

O masters, lords and aldermen, give ear!
How will ye deal out justice to this man?
How answer when some gaunt, long-suffering wretch
Whose slumbers he has murdered craves the right
To punch his head off and once more bring peace
To a distracted neighborhood? Ye men —
Ye men who rule the town, ’tis up to you!”

Daily Iowa State Press (Iowa City, Iowa) Sep 9, 1899


Question of His Responsibility for His Condition.

To the Editor of the Tribune —

Sir: Would it be possible through your paper to gain an expression of the opinion held by women in general on that topic so widely discussed of late, “The Man with the Hoe?”

Interest in the subject is not confined to those able to make a literary or artistic criticism; women who are students of the most elementary psychological and sociological questions are seeking to know how much of the blame for “The Man’s” condition ought really to be thrown upon the man himself. There seems to be in Mr. Markham’s verse no recognition of any obligation on the part of each individual to assume a share of the responsibility of his own intellectual advancement. Regard, if you will, “the man with the hoe” as a type of his class, and that class of the lowest social order; he surely cannot be divested of some responsibility for his own condition. Then is society wholly to blame for the existence of such as he?

Certainly no thoughtful person can have seen Millet’s picture or a reproduction of it, without receiving a profound impression, in part sobering if not saddening. Yet there are those who have gazed upon the painting and have found there portrayed a certain peace. To me, at least, there is no hopelessness in the man’s pictured figure; rather it speaks of thankfully taking a rest, found sweet because earned by strenuous effort. I claim that Millet’s peasant is not the oppressed creature represented by the poet. I deny the oppression. To say that this labor is oppressed because he works at a task that compels him to look more often at the earth than at the sky is as unreasonable as to declare that the millionaire oppressed when he is taxed to the full value of his property and is required to keep up repairs.

Mr. Markham calls upon the world to answer for the man’s “dulled brain.” He leads us to forget for a time that in the beginning all were dull of brain; that men must raise themselves, and that they can only do so through unceasing education. It is unfair to charge the world with effects springing from the free will acts of the individual. Such free acts, wrongly directed, have brought “The Man” to his present state. He should, I hold, be regarded as the result of the practice of shirking mental exertion.

No one can question, however, the responsibility of the world to lend needful aid or to even urge it upon any who are striving for personal development; yet, if the man’s “dulled brain” will not rouse him to response, impel him to action, he must abide the consequences. To make the world answerable for the result would be a monstrous wrong. What “made him dead to rapture and despair” but his own unheeding of the first faint impulse to reach beyond? Mental slothfulness checked desire, will to overcome was not put forth, and so it is sadly true that

Down all the stretch of hell to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this,

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *
More fraught with menace to the universe.

Thus “The Man” now. He is here, the result of ages of self-neglect. In the far dim past the choice has made; some remained as “brothers to the ox” and some elected to know

Plato and the swing of Pleiades,
***the long reaches of the peaks of song.

But even yet, if this man will cast aside the indolence of mind which has cursed his race, he, too, may see

The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose,

as they were seen by the first venturers in the field of thought. And though it is eternally true that man himself must make himself, it does not follow that no responsibility rests upon the seeing to help the blind. Women, whose work it is to uplift into light and beauty the lives of the lower classes, feels this and is striving to overcome wherever it is possible the effects of ages of mental indolence.

The slothfulness of the adult is almost incurable, yet free self-activity must be stimulated, and they who believe “the child to be father to the man” look to the little ones whose youthful training will help them to battle against some of the evil brought into the world by the great Army of the Unthinking. Can we not believe that the kindergarten toddler of today is able to grasp as deep a thought as that which dawned on the comprehension of the first man who did not shirk mental exertion in those long past ages when reflection began to challenge humanity to a struggle? And this child, though he may become a man with a hoe, a veritable toiler, need he be as a “brother to the ox?”

— F.J.S. in New York Tribune.

The Nebraska State Journal (Lincoln, Nebraska) Aug 7, 1899

The general opinion of the enlightened public seems to be, after due consideration, that Mr. Markham, the poet of the “Man with the Hoe” got the cart before the horse when he suggested that this poor man was the creation of the rich and the powerful. On the contrary the man with the hoe antedates all other men of modern times and the rich and the powerful are his creation.

It was the man with the hoe in its ancient rude form that began the structure of civilization. Then he got a plough and became better off, then he invented agricultural machines of all sorts and wealth and culture followed.

He is now as he always was, the author and finisher of all civilization. The poet who would try to make a brute of him is a degenerate. Having within him all the springs of progress and wealth if he is a brute he is a self-made one. It is “the man with the growler” that is an off scouring of civilization, not the man with an implement of agriculture in his hand.

The Nebraska State Journal (Lincoln, Nebraska) Aug 18, 1899

There is a singular relationshiop of blood and marriage among these perils. They are interwoven and concomitant. Unlike as are the men in whom they are separtely embodied, the man through whom they all become possible is the celebrated “man with the hoe.”

HEAR A PARABLE OF THE MACHINE, THE MONEY BAG, THE MOUTH AND THE HOE. The man with the machine persuaded the man with the hoe to vote precisely as he told him and thus made himself of much value as a commodity of barter or an instrument of assessment. The man with the money bag, desiring protection or power, went into the market place and found there the man with the machine, whereupon these two discovered a community of interest. This worked well until the man with the hoe grew suspicious that his part in the transaction, while the most important, was the least profitable. Then appeared the man with the mouth, promising to wind up the concern, distribute the assets and alter the laws of nature so far as necessary to effect a universal exchange of hoes for money bags. This programme was not fully carried out, but the machine was put temporarily out of repair, the money bag was sent abroad for its health, the mouth had an opportunity to explain some of its promises and retract the rest, and THE HOE, HAVING MARCHED IN SEVERAL PROCESSIONS AND GAINED MUCH EXPERIENCE, WENT ON HOEING AS BEFORE.

I do not mean to say that this somewhat allegorical description has ever been completely realized on any large scale in our country, but certain fragmentary features of it may be dimly recognized here and there in our politics. Men whose chief distinction is their wealth, men, whose only profession is the manipulation of political wires (underground), men who are related to real statemen as quacks to real physicians, have at times found their way into our ruling classes. Their presence is a menace to the integrity and security of the democracy.

The Newark Advocate (Newark, Ohio) Dec 9, 1901

The Man With the Hoe


The New Version.

“Who, indeed, is the ‘Man with the Hoe?'”
Said the preacher whose price is ten thousand or so,
“He’s nothing to me; he never has given
A dollar to buy my reserved seat in Heaven;
To be sure, our churches from taxes are free,
And the ‘Man with the Hoe’ pays the tax, but you see —
If churches were taxed and the tax couldn’t shirk,
Then some of us preachers must needs go to work.
And that would ne’er do, for we’re called of the Lord
To preach about Jonah, the Whale and the Gourd.”

“From the soles of your feet to the crown of your head
The ‘Man with the Hoe’ has clothed you.” I said,
“And even that binding of calfskin you prize
Because it preserves superstition and lies
Which you say are ‘holy,’ so, of course, it is so,
Was made by the overworked ‘Man with the Hoe.'”
But the preacher was shocked; he really didn’t know —
He guessed he wouldn’t bother ’bout the “Man with the Hoe.”

“Who in Hell is this ‘Man with the Hoe?'”
Asked the political boss, with his millions in “dough.”
“He’s the man who created the wealth you bestow
On race touts and gamblers and much vulgar show;
He’s the man who you rob by political stealth
And the woman who slaves to pile up your wealth
Through laws that are passed by your corrupt ‘pull’ —
He’s the man whose eyes you keep covered with ‘wool.'”

Yet this Man

Gathers the fuel and boils the pot
And cooks the dinner for the whole blessed lot
Of liars and loafers and political bums —
Then weeps that for him the good time never comes.
Then he follows the wagon and “carries the can,”
And goes to the polls and votes for their man.
The biggest damned fool in this whole “bloomin’ show”
Is this very same fellow, this “Man with the Hoe.”

Mansfield News (Mansfield, Ohio) Mar 23, 1904


William J. Lampton, after reading Markham’s world-famous poem, penned this, “The man with the ‘Dough'”:

Bowed by the weight of capital,
He leans
Upon the bank,
And gazes on the ground
That looks to him to people it
With all producing industries;
He fills the emptiness of ages
With his energy,
And on his credit bears
The burden of a world
That needs his strength;
Wealth makes him dead
To doubting and despair.
A thing that grieves not
And who always hopes,
Stolid and Stunned,
The brother to the ox
Is raised by him
To higher brotherhood,
Who loosens and lets down the jaw
That chews up Poverty?
Whose hand slants back the tide
Of panic and defeat?
Whose breath blows out
The light of failure and decay?
The man with the “dough.”
And don’t you forget it.

Title: International wood worker, Volume 14
Authors: Amalgamated Woodworkers’ International Union of America, Machine Woodworkers’ International Union of America
Publisher: Amalgamated Wood-Workers’ International Union of America, 1904 (Google book LINK)

Robert Burns: “John Anderson, My Jo”

January 25, 2010

From: The News (Frederick, Maryland) Mar 28, 1924

Intriguing comment [excerpt] left by Astri on a previous post about Robert Burns and Auld Lang Syne:

I just discovered at a local Robbie Burns party celebrating his birthday last night, here in western Canada, what I, for 3 or more decades, have loved and sung in Norwegian as an old Norwegian folk song. This is “Jon Anderson, Min Jo”.

Last night at the party, I discovered the English-language song called “John Anderson, my Joe” – to nearly the same tune (some of the ancient natural-scale tones common in the Norwegian folk music had been anglicized or ‘normalized’ according to english folk tunes) and with basically the same verses, in English.

I said to my friend driving home in the car, “I wonder if Burns heard this song and ‘lifted’ it for its beauty and lovely sentiment,” ~  maybe while travelling in Norway, or in a pub meeting Norwegian travellers (brought together by the prospect of beer, ever-alluring to both our peoples, from early days of mead-making and viking-travel, on doubt!)!

It would be interesting to find out when the Norwegians first started singing this song.  Might turn out to be one of those chicken/egg things, but I would be interested in finding out more. I tried searching the Norwegian title, and I only got 2 hits, neither of which gave any information.

This comment jogged my memory of a temperance poem I had previously posted, which turned out to be a parody of “John Anderson, My Jo.”  I decided to see what else I could dig up on this same poem, being it is Robert Burns’ birthday. Evidently, this poem was so popular, it was parodied quite a bit. Below is a sample of what I found:

From the Murder by Gaslight blog (link below)

Looking for a sausage vat picture for this first parody, I was surprised to find the above image actually took me to a blog  post about the murder referenced in the parody! Link: Louise Luetgert: The Sausage Vat Murder

Rather sick sense of humor, I think:


John Anderson, my Jo, John,
When you and I first met
We loved each other well, John;
But not, already yet;
We had a little spat, John,
Not many months ago,
And you boiled me in a sausage vat,
John Anderson, my Jo.

The Nebraska State Journal (Lincoln, Nebraska) Oct 21, 1897


John Anderson, my Jo John
When we again prepare
To kill the boar black pigs John,
That scent the perfumed air,
We’ll bribe our fellow men, John,
With cash before we go,
To haul them to the slaughter pen,
John Anderson, my Jo.

The Nebraska State Journal (Lincoln, Nebraska) Nov 22, 1897

I saw the great regatta go
A half a mile from land;
The sons of Eli tried to row
Their boat to beat the band.
The oars sank deep, the men perspired,
I heard them puff and blow —
Too slow the pace, they lost the race,
John Anderson, my jo.

The Nebraska State Journal (Lincoln, Nebraska) Jul 10, 1909


Now, for a couple of advertisements:

The Ohio Democrat ( New Philadelphia, Ohio) Oct 18, 1888


John Anderson, my Jo, John,
When last it was we met,
Our winter supply of Coal, John,
Hand not been purchased yet.
“It’s time you was skidooing, John,”
I hear all the wise people speak —
There should be something doing, John,
Then do it now — this week.

No.2 Chestnut . . . $5.75 the ton
UNION COAL CO. 119 Main St.

The Fitchburg Sentinel (Fitchburg, Massachusetts) Jun 25, 1906


A political parody:

John C. Calhoun (Image from


Tune – “John Anderson my Jo.”

John C. Calhoun my Jo John, I’m sorry for your fate,
You’ve nullify’d the Tariff laws, you’ve nullify’d your State;
You’ve nullify’d your party, John, and principles, you know,
And now you’ve nullified yourself, John C. Calhoun my Jo.

Oh! John how could you look into the face of Henry Clay?
The glory of the Western World, and of the World away;
You call’d yourself his ‘master,’ John, but that can ne’er be so,
For he ‘would not own you for a slave,’ John C. Calhoun my Jo.

The Father of the Tariff, and patron of the Arts,
He seeks to build his country up in spite of foreign parts;
And Harrison will soon upset the little Van & Co.
And renovate the ship of State, John C. Calhoun my Jo.

John C. Calhoun my Jo John, ambition in despair
Once made you nullify the WHOLE, the HALF of it to share;
The ‘whole hog now you’ve gone,’ John, with Kendall, Blair & Co.’
But ‘you’ve got the wrong sow by the ear,’ John C. Calhoun my Jo.

American mechanics, John, will never sell their votes
For mint drops or for Treasury bills, or even British coats;
They want no English coaches, John, while servants they forego,
For their carriage is of Yankee stamp, John C. Calhoun my Jo.

Oh! John he is a slippery blade with whom you’ve got to deal,
He’ll pass between your clutches too, just like a living eel;
You think he’ll RECOMMEND you, John, but Van will ne’er do so,
For he wants the fishes for himself, John C. Calhoun my Jo.

John C. Calhoun my Jo John, if this you dare to doubt,
Go ask the LIVING SKELETON who deals his secrets out;
His favorites are marked, John, the mark you cannot toe,
And you’ll soon repent the bargain made, John C. Calhoun my Jo.

This is dirty business, John, go wash your little hands,
And never bow your knee again to cunning Van’s commands;
‘How are you off for soap,’ John, I cannot say I know,
But ‘your mother does not know you’re out’ John C. Calhoun my Jo.

The brave sons of the South, John, will never own you more,
And Benton’s Mint Drops will not save — you’re rotten to the core;
The people will no power, John, on such as you bestow,
And you’ve jump’d your final sumerset, John C. Calhoun my Jo.

Then better men, my Jo John our sad affairs will fix,
Republicans in principle, the Whigs of Seventy six;
The offices they’ll purge, John, Swartwouters all must go,
And Sycophantic fellows too, John C. Calhoun my Jo.

The farmer of North Bend, John, will plough the weeds away,
And the terror of Tecumseh then will gain another day;
America will flourish John, mechanics find employ,
And our merchants will rejoice indeed, John C. Calhoun my Jo.

John C. Calhoun my Jo John, when one term shall expire,
He’ll drop the reins of power and with dignity retire,
To look upon a smiling land, that he has rendered so,
And every Whig will cry AMEN, John C. Calhoun my Jo.

Poet’s Garret, Baltimore, January, 1840.

Huron Reflector (Norwalk, Ohio) Mar 7,  1840

Francis Scott Key

This last one is not a parody, but rather interesting, if Francis Scott Key actually penned these additional verses:


A Pipe Creek Man Awakens a Reminiscence of Francis Scott Key.

A correspondent of the Washington Evening Star writes: In your issue of Saturday you publish an added verse to Burns’ “John Anderson, My Jo,” written by a lady from Georgia.

Mr. Francis S. Key, the author of the “Star Spangled Banner,” wrote two additional verses to Burns’ poem, and not remembering having seen them published, I send them to you.

Mr. Key writes:

“There ought to be another —

John Anderson my Jo, John,
From that sleep again we’ll wake,
When another day’s fair light
On our opened eyes shall break.
And we’ll rise in youth and beauty
To that bright land to go,
Where life and love shall last for aye,
John Anderson, my Jo


John Anderson, my Jo, John,
One day we’ll waken there,
Where a brighter morn than ever shone,
Our opened eyes shall cheer.
And in fresh youth and beauty
To that blest land we’ll go
Where we’ll live and love forever,
John Anderson, my Jo.”

Pipe Creek, October 13, 1842. B.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) May 21,  1885