Ye Worshippers of Tyler
Air: Ye Parliament of England
Ye worshippers of Tyler,
Who spread ruin through the land,
And pluck off her prosperity
With treason's coward hand,
Pause in your march of plunder,
For there's one in your track,
Will drive you from the state's high chair,
And bring her glories back.
Think not your schemes can prosper,
Think not to 'scape our eyes,
When your spoils are wet with people's tears,
And by wronged tradesmen's sighs.
Look on their once bright dwellings,
Now destitute and bare,
While want's lank eyes are telling
The hopes you've b'asted there.
'T were better they were sleeping
Within the silent tomb,
For never to their sunken hearts
Shall hope and trade e'er bloom,
Unless each state despoiler
Renounces on this day
The "veto" monarch, Tyler,
And wears the badge of Clay.
Your chief's dog-star is waning,
Now in the glowing West,
Before the brilliant dawning
Of Freedom's sun, the best.
Its blaze is lighting onward,
Swift as the lightning's wing,
And soon will write his veto
Upon your "veto king."