Barksdale and Wigwail

    I wail, I wail! boo ho!
In sorrow my hair is brought down to the dead,
I take up the wail of that poor old Ned,
Who hadn’t any wool on the top of his head,
    In the place where the wool ought to grow!

    You wale! you wale! oh woes!
You take my scalp, and I take my heels,
And barely escape as the fierce “trump” peels,
And a cold thrill over it steals,
    And a warm one down my nose!

You whale! you whale! these blows
Have blown up the hokeys, and blown down a whig
And broken the peace and my head at one dig,
As the House fell to it, both little and big,
    Just taking the eyes and the nose!

    Washburne, Washburn! disclose,
Do you wash the burn of a Nulli-fier?
Have you salve for the bruise of a bloody desire?
If you have, I have taken a box entire —
    And am cooled from my scalp to my toes!