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Awoke one night from a strange dream of peace,
And saw, within the curtains of his bed,
Making his t'other eye to squint with dread--
Old Jackson, writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding Rye had made Buchanan bold,
And to the stern Ex-President he said:
“Wha — what writ'st thou?” The spirit shook his head,
The while he answered, with the voice of old:
“The names of those who ne'er their country sold!”
And is mine one? asked J. B. “Vary!” cried
The General, with a frown. Buchanan sighed,
And groaned, and turned himself upon his bed,
And took another “nip” of “rye,” then said:
“Well, ere thou lay thy record on the shelf,
Write me at least as one who sold himself!
‘Demoes ’ and ‘ Rye’ so long my spirits were,
That when the ‘Crisis’ came — I wasn't there!”
The General wrote, and vanished; the next night
He came again, in more appalling plight,
And showed those names that all true men detest,
And lo! Buchanan's name led all the rest!
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