Well, then I got kind of discouraged, but I thought that I'd better try
again, and not get up so far,
But ask for what he'd give beyond doubt,
So I asked for a position as night watchman at the Navy Yard, and
thought I'd get it, and he'd answer my request, for I'd noticed that
his Havana was gradually growing smaller, and he did answer me,
just as he'd thrown away the end of his cigar,
He simply said, "Get out!"
Says General GRANT, says he.

VI.

So I got out, as fast as a pair of legs, with a number twelve boot
kicking at the place where they're joined, would permit,
And wandered off, just about as far
As I conveniently could, and then I sat down on a milestone and raised
my voice to Heaven, and cried aloud, that, weather permitting,
General GRANT should never, _never_, NEVER, go back to the White
House, not if I could help it,
To puff on his cigar,
Said ICHABOD BOGGS, said I.

[Footnote 4: We hope none of our readers will labor under the impression
that we look upon the above effusion as a poetical one, but, in this day
of many isms, it may happen that the above style may become prevalent,
and we think it our duty to present everything that is new. EDS.]

* * * * *

2.02 TO HARNESS.