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!