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324 And Killing’s a sure path to fame,
 * Vide Jack Ketch and Mr. Clinton!

Our Council well this path have trod,
 * Honor’s immortal wreath securing;

They’ve dipped their hatchets in the blood,
 * The patriot blood, of Mat Van Buren.

He bears, as every hero ought,
 * The mandate of the powers that rule

(He’s higher game in view, ’tis thought,
 * All in good time; the man’s no fool).

With him, some dozens prostrate fall,
 * No friend to mourn, nor foe to flout them,

They die unsung, unwept by all,
 * For no one cares a sou about them.

Wortman and Scott may grace the bar again,
 * For them, a blest exchange we make;

We’ve dignity in Ned McGareaghan,
 * And all, but that, in Jerry Drake.

And lo! the wreath of withered leaves
 * That lately twined Van Buren’s brow,

Oakley’s pure, spotless hand receives;
 * He’s earned it—’tis no matter how.

Let office-holders cease to weep,
 * And put once more their gala-dress on;