Stanford, when recently you gave Tom Fitch
Ten thousand dollars, gold, to “stump the State”
(A circumstance of no importance, which
You deemed it right, however, to relate
To the grand jury) did you calculate
That it and other sums, which I will not
Embarrass you by naming, would come back,
As bread upon the waters, piping hot,
With added pancakes in an ample stack?
’Twere better, sir, to cast your bread-and-butter
(You’d get that back, at least) into the gutter.
Tom Fitch’s “silver tongue” is very well
If let alone—though that he’ll never do.
For he must live by what he has to sell,
And silver should be “free,” that’s very true.
But how the devil could the thing help you?
Like an unruly child, it kicks and squalls
In mutiny whene’er he moves his chin,
And ne’er is faithful except when he falls
Asleep in Je—I mean, of course, in Gin.
Tom’s tongue make Senators? No, no, that’s gammon;
They’re made by Mr. Stow and Mr. Mammon.
I know they are, for once I saw the two
Hobnobbing in a friendly kind of way
Up there at Sacramento. It is true
You were not with them. I heard statesmen say
You took good care to tarry at the Bay,
Where you could be “surprised” when Creed should claim
Your ear, and hope you’d pardon him, and sigh,
And say he’d ventured to propose your name,
And that all men had thrown their hats so high
That none had yet come down, and split their collars
With cheers, and—would you loan him twenty dollars?
A famous person said that God and he
Were a majority; so, by your leave,
Are you and Mammon; but it seems to me
That you and he on this Thanksgiving eve
Should drink a stirrup-cup (for I perceive
You ride your philanthropic hobby—Ned
Curtis astride behind you) and so part.
For, after all is done and all is said.
Mammon & Stanford are not over-smart.
The firm’s an old one, but not quite respected
Since you in statesmanship have been detected.