John C. Fremont, My Jo
John C. Fremont, My Jo.
John Charles Fremont, my jo John, when nature formed the plan
To make another race, John, betwixt baboon and man,
They manufactured you, John, but would no further go,
Disgusted with her specimen, John Charles Fremont, my jo.
John Charles Fremont, my jo, John, when first we sent you west,
To see what you could do, John, you were all brightly dressed:
But that which, won our hearts, John, was the way you wore your
From crown to forehead parted, John, in lines so smooth and fair.
John Charles Fremont, my jo John, the reason since is plain—
Your head is but a cranky craft, and destitute of brain.
So easily upset, John, you are compelled to trim
Its riggings with precision, John, to make the frail thing swim.
John Charles Fremont, my jo John, on Rocky Mountain ground
You lost your senses, as well as wag, and neither since have found.
But this strange parodox exists among the Tribune crew—
The bigger fool you are, John, the more they worship you.
John Charles Fremont, my jo, John, we tried you in Missouri,
And there you soon contrived, John, to cook a bad (pot pourri;)
To speak in other words, John, as e’en your friends confess—
Though lying sycophant—you made a devil of a mess.
John Charles Fremont, my jo John, you filched from Stockton’s hand
The honor, bravely won in fight in California Strand;
And now, you Prince of Charlatans, you and your wandering pack
Would pluck the Laurels from the brow of Glorious Little Mack.
John Charles Fremont, my jo John, to you we’ve had our say,
And recommend to you, John, to take yourself away—
To fly to Mariposa, John, as fast as you can go,
And fight the squatters on your track, John Charles Fremont my jo.
And when your life is o’er, John, we hope there’ll be a place
For Niggers—you and Greely and others of that race.
If this shall be impossible, we hope that you will go
For ever to the Devil—John Charles Fremont, my jo.