New Cock Robin
Who's to be Editor of the Tribune?
I, says Schuyler Colfax!
Tho' my idle pen doth show lax
It can slaughter like a pole-axe.
I'm the man to deal in cold facts
For ten thousand — green or gold backs,
I'm to be said Editor.
Who's to be Editor of the Tribune?
I, says Georgius William Curtis!
What I'm able to assert is
That as far as rebel dirt is
Concerned, all clear [ sic ] my shirt is
I'm the man! And, certes,
For shares, cash, or seven-thirties,
My pen that now inert is
I'll dip in aqua-furtis,
Since I'm to be that Editor.
Who's to be Editor of the Tribune?
I, says Whitelaw Reid!
On, great Pegasus, my steed,
I charge the felon Tweed!
Of all his filthy breed,
That with a ghoul-like greed
On our credit's corpse did feed,
The metropolis I freed.
Of Reform I took the lead —
To the West, with ardent speed
Bent my way. And in the hour of need,
In Cincinnati sowed the seed
Of a movement that decreed
Corruption's death. Alas! the reed —
Oh, weaker still! — the weed
We leaned on, broke — indeed
The time was past, I rede,
For " Liberal " virtue to succeed.
Now I promised naught. I'm keyed
Up to honor's pitch. I'll bleed
Before I'll ever draw a bead
In monopoly's defence. Give heed
To my words. On which basis Whitelaw Reid
Is content to be that Editor.
Who's to be Editor of the Tribune?
I, says Speaker Blaine!
Born Republican, I fain —
I! that do scorn to feign
Truth, in forum or in fane —
Would fight, and fight again
Where long, with might and main
I've helped to pile the slain
On Democratic fields, 'mid rain
Of speech and ink, when rebel reign
Seemed imminent and men gave rein
To cowardly impulse and the stain
Of slavish fear wrought bane
In Northern hearts. This brain
Did never yet refrain,
This heart did ne'er complain,
This hand did ne'er disdain
To think, feel, work — unheeding whether gain
Might crown my toil and pain
If I only could raise Cain
With that locofoco gang. No grain
Of self doth urge this suit. This strain
Of laudatory song doth drain
The deep fountains of my modesty. O deign
To scan my motive justly. Ah, wane-
ing sun, set fair! And rise on Blaine
So that I may be that Editor.
Who's to be Editor of the Tribune?
I, says Mark Twain —
'Tis my Castle in Spain!
I'm the man for the place, though I cannot explain
Why; for the reason that Blaine
The recondite Radical Rep. from Chill Maine
O, bothering, troublesome, itching chil-Blaine —
Has used all the words except vain and insane
That happily rhyme with Yours Truly, Mark Twain.
So I offer no plea — merely pray that the seine
That is dragging for editors the whole inky main
May miss all the whales and catch this sardayne —
For I yearn to be that Editor
Mark Twain
P.S. But failing Colfax, Curtis, Reid, Blaine, Twain
Thank God there's one Power left — George Francis Train!
Oh, let old Talk-Talk have a show.
I, says Schuyler Colfax!
Tho' my idle pen doth show lax
It can slaughter like a pole-axe.
I'm the man to deal in cold facts
For ten thousand — green or gold backs,
I'm to be said Editor.
Who's to be Editor of the Tribune?
I, says Georgius William Curtis!
What I'm able to assert is
That as far as rebel dirt is
Concerned, all clear [ sic ] my shirt is
I'm the man! And, certes,
For shares, cash, or seven-thirties,
My pen that now inert is
I'll dip in aqua-furtis,
Since I'm to be that Editor.
Who's to be Editor of the Tribune?
I, says Whitelaw Reid!
On, great Pegasus, my steed,
I charge the felon Tweed!
Of all his filthy breed,
That with a ghoul-like greed
On our credit's corpse did feed,
The metropolis I freed.
Of Reform I took the lead —
To the West, with ardent speed
Bent my way. And in the hour of need,
In Cincinnati sowed the seed
Of a movement that decreed
Corruption's death. Alas! the reed —
Oh, weaker still! — the weed
We leaned on, broke — indeed
The time was past, I rede,
For " Liberal " virtue to succeed.
Now I promised naught. I'm keyed
Up to honor's pitch. I'll bleed
Before I'll ever draw a bead
In monopoly's defence. Give heed
To my words. On which basis Whitelaw Reid
Is content to be that Editor.
Who's to be Editor of the Tribune?
I, says Speaker Blaine!
Born Republican, I fain —
I! that do scorn to feign
Truth, in forum or in fane —
Would fight, and fight again
Where long, with might and main
I've helped to pile the slain
On Democratic fields, 'mid rain
Of speech and ink, when rebel reign
Seemed imminent and men gave rein
To cowardly impulse and the stain
Of slavish fear wrought bane
In Northern hearts. This brain
Did never yet refrain,
This heart did ne'er complain,
This hand did ne'er disdain
To think, feel, work — unheeding whether gain
Might crown my toil and pain
If I only could raise Cain
With that locofoco gang. No grain
Of self doth urge this suit. This strain
Of laudatory song doth drain
The deep fountains of my modesty. O deign
To scan my motive justly. Ah, wane-
ing sun, set fair! And rise on Blaine
So that I may be that Editor.
Who's to be Editor of the Tribune?
I, says Mark Twain —
'Tis my Castle in Spain!
I'm the man for the place, though I cannot explain
Why; for the reason that Blaine
The recondite Radical Rep. from Chill Maine
O, bothering, troublesome, itching chil-Blaine —
Has used all the words except vain and insane
That happily rhyme with Yours Truly, Mark Twain.
So I offer no plea — merely pray that the seine
That is dragging for editors the whole inky main
May miss all the whales and catch this sardayne —
For I yearn to be that Editor
Mark Twain
P.S. But failing Colfax, Curtis, Reid, Blaine, Twain
Thank God there's one Power left — George Francis Train!
Oh, let old Talk-Talk have a show.
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