e mein--by Gott!

Dere's grandma dinks she's nicht small beer,
Mit Boers und such she interfere;
She'll learn none owns dis hemisphere
But me--und Gott!

She dinks, good frau, fine ships she's got
And soldiers mit der scarlet goat.
Ach! We could knock them! Pouf! Like dot,
Myself--mit Gott!

In dimes of peace, brebare for wars,
I bear the spear and helm of Mars,
Und care not for a thousand Czars,
Myself--mit Gott!

In fact, I humor efery whim,
With aspect dark and visage grim;
Gott pulls mit Me, and I mit him,
Myself--und Gott!

_Rodney Blake._

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

Gineral B. is a sensible man;
He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;
But John P.
Robinson, he
Sez he wunt vote for Gineral B.

My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we do?
We can't never choose him, o' course--that's flat:
Guess we shall hev to come round (don't you?),
An' go in for thunder an' guns, an' all that;
Fer John P.
Robinson, he
Sez he wunt vote for Gineral B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:
He's been on all sides that give places or pelf;
But consistency still was a part of his plan--
He's been true to' _one_ party, and that is himself;
So John P.
Robinson, he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. goes in for the war;
He don't vally principle mor'n an old cud;
What did God make us raytional creeturs fer,
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?
So John P.
Robinson, he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We're gettin' on nicely up here to our village,
With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't;
We o' thought Christ went against war and pillage,
An' that eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;
But John P.
Robinson, he
Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took,
An' President Pulk, you know, _he_ is our country;
An' the angel that writes all our sins in a book,
Puts the _debit_ to him, an' to us the _per contry_;
An' John P.
Robinson, he
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these arguments lies;
Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest _fee, faw