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258 Sit mincing, smiling, bowing, talking
 * Of Congress—balls—the Indian force—

Some think the General will be walking,
 * And some suppose he’ll ride, of course:

And some are whistling—some are humming,
 * And some are peering in the Park

To try if they can see him coming;
 * And some are half asleep—when, hark!

A triumph on the warlike drum,
 * A heart-uplifting bugle-strain,

A fife’s far flourish—and “They come!”
 * Rung from the gathered train.

Sit down—the fun will soon commence—
 * Quick, quick, your Honor, mount your place,

Present your loaded compliments,
 * And fire a volley in his face!

They’re at it now—great guns and small—
 * Squib, cracker, cannon, musketry;

Dear General, though you swallow all,
 * I must confess it sickens me.

D.