The Night Of Election

By Ambrose Bierce

O venerable patriot, I pray
Stand not here coatless; at the break of day
We’ll know the grand result-and even now
The eastern sky is faintly touched with gray.

‘It ill befits thine age’s hoary crown
This rude environment of rogue and clown,
Who, as the lying bulletins appear,
With drunken cries incarnadine the town.

‘But if with noble zeal you stay to note
The outcome of your patriotic vote
For Blaine, or Cleveland, and your native land,
Take-and God bless you!-take my overcoat.’

‘Done, pard-and mighty white of you. And now
guess the country’ll keep the trail somehow.
I aint allowed to vote, the Warden said,
But whacked my coat up on old Stanislow.’

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