| | WE are all docile dough-faces, |
| They knead us with the fist, |
| They, the dashing southern lords, |
| We labor as they list; |
| For them we speak—or hold our tongues, |
| For them we turn and twist. |
| |
| We join them in their howl against |
| Free soil and “abolition,” |
| That firebrand—that assassin knife— |
| Which risk our land’s condition, |
| And leave no peace of life to any |
| Dough-faced politician. |
| |
| To put down “agitation,” now, |
| We think the most judicious; |
| To damn all “northern fanatics,” |
| Those “traitors” black and vicious; |
| The “reg’lar party usages” |
| For us, and no “new issues.” |
| |
| Things have come to a pretty pass, |
| When a trifle small as this, |
| Moving and bartering nigger slaves, |
| Can open an abyss, |
| With jaws a-gape for “the two great parties;” |
| A pretty thought, I wis! |
| |
| Principle—freedom!—fiddlesticks! |
| We know not where they ’re found. |
| Rights of the masses—progress!—bah! |
| Words that tickle and sound; |
| But claiming to rule o’er “practical men” |
| Is very different ground. |
| |
| Beyond all such we know a term |
| Charming to ears and eyes, |
| With it we’ll stab young Freedom, |
| And do it in disguise; |
| Speak soft, ye wily dough-faces— |
| That term is “compromise.” |
| |
| And what if children, growing up, |
| In future seasons read |
| The thing we do? and heart and tongue |
| Accurse us for the deed? |
| The future cannot touch us; |
| The present gain we heed. |
| |
| Then, all together, dough-faces! |
| Let’s stop the exciting clatter, |
| And pacify slave-breeding wrath |
| By yielding all the matter; |
| For otherwise, as sure as guns, |
| The Union it will shatter. |
| |
| Besides, to tell the honest truth |
| (For us an innovation,) |
| Keeping in with the slave power |
| Is our personal salvation; |
| We ’ve very little to expect |
| From t’ other part of the nation. |
| |
| Besides it’s plain at Washington |
| Who likeliest wins the race, |
| What earthly chance has “free soil” |
| For any good fat place? |
| While many a daw has feather’d his nest, |
| By his creamy and meek dough-face. |
| |
| Take heart, then, sweet companions, |
| Be steady, Scripture Dick! |
| Webster, Cooper, Walker, |
| To your allegiance stick! |
| With Brooks, and Briggs and Phœnix, |
| Stand up through thin and thick! |
| |
| We do not ask a bold brave front; |
| We never try that game; |
| ’Twould bring the storm upon our heads, |
| A huge mad storm of shame; |
| Evade it, brothers—“compromise” |
| Will answer just the same. |
| PAUMANOK. |
