John Hamilton, my Jo John, When first we were acquaint You were as lavish as could be With your vermillion paint; But now the head that once was red Seems veiled in sable woe, And clouds of gloom obscure your boom, John Hamilton, my Jo.
Oh, was it Campbell's hatchet wrought The ruin we deplore? Or was it Abnor Taylor's thirst For your abundant gore? Or was it Hank's ambitious pranks That laid our idol low? Come, let us know how came you so, John Hamilton, my Joe!
We pine to know the awful truth.
So, pray, be pleased to tell The story -- full of tragic fire -- How one great statesman fell; How dives' hand stalked in the land And dealt a crushing blow At one proud name -- which you're the same, John Hamilton, my Jo!
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