Plaint Of The Missouri 'Coon In The Berlin Zoological Gardens.

Friend, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know,     And born in old Mizzourah, where the 'coons in plenty grow;     I, too, am a native of that clime, but harsh, relentless fate     Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble state,     And I, who used to climb around and swing from tree to tree,     Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see.     Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near     While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.     My pedigree is noble--they used my grandsire's skin     To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within--     Tom Patterson of Denver; no ermine can compare     With the grizzled robe that democratic statesman loves to wear!     Of such a grandsire I have come, and in the County Cole,     All up an ancient cottonwood, our family had its hole--     We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings     As we hustled around from day to day in search of bugs and things.     And when the darkness fell around, a mocking bird was nigh,     Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby;     And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night     That nary 'coon could wollop him in a stand-up barrel fight;     We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzourians know     That ary 'coon can beat a dog if the 'coon gets half a show!     But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n     And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n!     Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days--     I cannot get acclimated or used to German ways;     The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine     For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine!     The 'coon that's been used to stanch democratic cheer     Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer!     No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms,     But send me back from whence I came and let me grub for worms!     They come (these gaping Teutons do) on Sunday afternoons     And wonder what I am--alas! there are no German 'coons!     For, if there were, I might still swing at home from tree to tree,     A symbol of democracy that's woolly, blythe and free.     And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot,     For I have tasted liberty--these others, they have not!     So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feels     Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels!     Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy and O'Neill,     To Jasper Burke and Colonel Jones, and tell 'em how I feel;     My compliments to Cockrill, Munford, Switzler, Hasbrook, Vest,     Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead and the rest;     Bid them be steadfast in the faith and pay no heed at all     To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncy Filley's gall;     And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here     By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer.