Classic Poem

E ATHER , I've heard our member cry
For the " good old dollar " of days gone by,
While the tear bedewed his massive cheek,
And his faltering voice was sad and weak.
Oh, what was that coin beloved of old? —
Was it heavy and bright and virgin gold?
Not much, my child .

Then, was it of silver fair and bright,
Round as the silver moon at night?
Did " we trust in God, 900 fine, "
And in Mr. Jones who owned the mine?
Was it milled and stamped in cunning style,
And was eighty cents the size of its pile?
Scarcely, my child .

Oh, was it of copper smooth and round,
A hundred bung-downs weighing a pound,
And some of 'em buttons, and some of 'em brass,
That onto a blind man you might pass?
Were those the particular kind of brads
That made up the dollar dear to our dads?
Not quite, my child .

Then, was it the sweet shinplaster note,
Upon which the wild-cat bankers dote?
Or was it a bill on a bank that bust
Whenever you wanted to draw your dust?
And had it a discount of one per cent,
Like a coupon, every mile it went?
Well, no, my child .

The dollar your member doats upon
Is a dollar you never will see, my son:
The dollar which pays all sorts of debts,
And leaves a stake for election bets;
The dollar you pass when you hire a hack,
And a dollar and a half in change comes back;
The dollar you flip and it comes down head
Or tail, whichever you may have said;
The dollar that buys whatever you will,
And is earned by steady sitting still, —
The dollar pure and unsoiled by sweat
Is the dollar they want " restored, " you bet!
And if you would know whereof 'tis made,
Go ask of the india-rubber trade;
But if you inquire why it is styled
" The Fathers' Dollar, "
You've got me, child .