Hiland-Buckingham Poem by Samuel Alfred Beadle

Oh! have you heard the boastful song
Of Highland-Buckingham;
Who often in their zeal go wrong,
And never care a damn.


Gay, happy pals, the coin and bag,
The records and what not,
They'd hold by fraud, or guile and gag,
While Eddie 'bulls' the pot.


You hold the records and the seal,
And Buck 'll hold the bag,
While John and Ed, by crooked deal,
The delegates will gag.


The people's choice we may not be,
But what care we for that;
We've fixed it so that you and 'me'
And Johnny can stand pat.


'Twas in the sunny month of May,
I think, or thereabout,
When Eddie Jones devised a way,
Of counting people out.


Since Eddie taught us how to buck
And gag the delegate,
We'll slime the people's choice with muck
And let the rascals bleat.


Our John will quack it like a duck,
And straddle like a clown;
Till 'twix vile roguery and luck
We steal for him the crown.


For you the seal, for me the bag,
Or you the bag and me
The seal; we'll swap 'em as we wag,
'Twix guile and tweedledee.


We'll gull 'um here and gag 'um there;
The delegates, you see,
Have got no rights for which we care -
Friend Buck, that's you and 'me.'


You are my candidate, dear Buck,
And I your jolly pal;
You need not doubt your Hiland's pluck,
It's cheek by jowl with mal.


For me the seal, for you the bag,
For John the gavel's trust;
The people's choice we'll buck and gag,
And take the bag or bust.


'Tis true, we've been a little lax -
Just twenty thousand short -
But still we have the gall to tax
The people while they snort.


They are such queer, such simple things;
I mean the people, Buck;
They'd leave their rights to clicks and rings
And court the Boss and luck.


The Boss, by jingo, he is a bird,
There's magic in his name,
Not by our suffrage; but his word
We win or lose the game.


On rights, the people would not toss
A copper's head nor tail,
They'd rather, far, to know the 'Boss'
Had drove a heeler's sale.


The days of patriots have passed,
Their principles are dead,
The heeler has the sage outclassed
And sports a price per head.


For principles men used to fight,
To 'venge a wrong would die,
But now they slip a cog that's tight
And barter rights for rye.


And there's a trait that's glorious,
In diplomatic art,
'Tis making right so odious
That wrong seems 'pure of heart.'