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Electioneering.—A Song.

A worthy small farmer, a kindly old Joe,
Had finished potatoe plantation,
When straight’ning his back with a hearty “heigh-ho!”
He got quite another inflation.

The sun in declining shone full in his face,
Which shew’d it full radient with pleasure,
The dimpling smile seem’d dusty cares to displace,
As one had discover’d some treasure.

A treasure, indeed, of sweet fanciful pride,
Which seem’d with him in the ascendant,
As thus he exclaimed, “Well, what harm can betide
Should I try to be Superintendent!”

Oh! he had been reading the papers last night,
That journal which snubbs Independent;
Which told “that our Province would soon be a plight
Without a good Superintendent!”

Now, thought he, who best the big chair could engage
Than himself, the great Small Farm promoter;
And ev’ry small farmer, he well could presage,
Would be his supporter and voter.

He’s off to the city next day in his cart,
With a cargo of bacon and butter;
A good double business to do in the mart,
While politics makes his heart flutter.

Determined to make fresh advancements in life,
Though old age be in him the ascendant;
His spirit’s still young to engage in the strife
Of being our Superintendent!

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The price of both bacon and butter he’ll spend,
In support of each fervent oration!
No sacrifice will be too great, that will tend
To inflate us with his inspiration.

So now, independent electors, beware
Of the approaching electioneer season;
Lest a hapless full moon should you send to the care
Of some doctor, bereft of your reason!