THE TARIFF ON TIN

Monarch of Hannah's rocking-chair,

With unclipped beard and unkempt hair,

Sitting at ease by the kitchen fire,

Nor heeding the wind and the driving sleet,

Jo Lumpkin perused the Daily Liar —

A leading and stanch Democratic sheet,

While Hannah, his wife, in her calico,

Sat knitting a pair of mittens for Jo.

“Hanner,” he said, and he raised his eyes

And looked exceedingly grave and wise,

“The kentry's agoin, I guess, tu the dogs:

Them durned Republikins, they air hogs:

A dev'lish purty fix we air in;

They've gone un riz the teriff on tin.”

“How's thet?” said Hannah, and turned her eyes

With a look of wonder and vague surprise.

“Why them confoundered Congriss chaps

Hez knocked the prices out uv our craps:

We can n't sell butter ner beans no more

Tu enny furren ship er shore,

Becuz them durned Republikins

Hez gone un riz the teriff on tins.”

Hannah dropped her knitting-work on her knees,

And looked very solemn and ill-at-ease:

She gazed profoundly into the fire,

Then hitched her chair a little bit nigher,

And said as she glanced at the Daily Liar

With a sad, wan look in her buttermilk eyes:

“I vum thet's a tax on punkin-pies,

Fer they know we allers bakes‘ em in

Pans un platters un plates uv tin.”

“I would n't agrumbled a bit,” said Jo,

“Et a tax on sugar un salt un sich;

But I swow it's a morul political sin

Tu drive the farmer intu the ditch

With thet pesky teriff on tin.

Ef they'd a put a teriff on irn un coal

Un hides un taller un hemlock bark,

Why thet might a helped us out uv a hole

By buildin uv mills un givin uv work,

Un gladd'nin many a farmer's soul

By raisin the price of pertaters un pork:

But durn their eyes, it's a morul sin —

They've gone un riz the teriff on tin.

I would n't wonder a bit ef Blaine

Hed diskivered a tin mine over in Maine;

Er else he hez foundered a combinashin

Tu gobble the tin uv the hull creashin.

I'll bet Jay Gould is intu the'trust,’

Un they've gone in tergether tu make er bust;

Un tu keep the British frum crowdin in

They've gone un riz the teriff on tin.

What'll we du fer pans un pails

When the cow comes in un the old uns fails?

Tu borrer a word frum Scripter, Hanner,

Un du it, tu, in pious manner,

You'll hev tu go down in yer sock fer a ducat,

Er milk old Roan in a wooden bucket:

Fer them Republikins — durn their skin —

Hez riz sich a turrible teriff on tin.

Tu cents a pound on British tin-plate!

Why, Hanner, you see, at thet air rate,

Accordin tu this ere newspaper-print —

Un it mus be so er it would n't’ be i n't —

It's a dollar un a half on one tin pan,

Un about six shillin on a coffee-can,

Un ten shillin, Hanner, on a dinner-pail!

Gol! wo n't it make the workin men squeal —

Thet durned Republikin tax un steal!

They call it Protecshin, but blast my skin

Ef it aint a morul political sin —

Thet durned Republikin teriff on tin.

“Un then they hev put a teriff on silk

Un satin un velvit un thet air ilk,

Un broadcloth un brandy un Havanny cigars,

Un them slick silk hats thet our preacher wears;

Un he'll hev tu wear humspun un drink skim milk.

Un, Hanner, you see we'll hev tu be savin,

Un whittle our store-bill down tu a shavin;

You can n't go tu meetin in silks; I vum

You'll hev tu wear ging-um er stay tu hum.”

But Hannah said sharply — “I wo n't though, I swum!”

And Hannah gazed wistfully on her Jo

As he rocked himself mournfully to and fro,

And then she looked thoughtfully into the fire,

While the sleet fell faster and the wind blew higher,

And Jo took a turn at the Daily Liar.