WHIG BATTLE CRY.
Tune.— The Campbells are Coming.
Away to the battle, our foemen are near,
The cries of their leaders are mingled with fear;
Their host is divided — their courage is fled,
And the eagle of victory screams at our head.
Then down with your enemies — rush to the charge,
They have set on our people dread ruin at large,
From mountain and valley their cries have gone up
They have drank of the contents of misery’s cup.
Then onward, — our leader has ever been true,
He lives for his country, and battles for you.
Old time in his hurry has honored his brow,
And Harry for freedom is struggling now.
Our banners are flinging their folds to the air,
And the name of our champion nobly they bear —
The friend of the poor man— the greatest — the best.
The man that we love — Henry Clay of the West.
Tomorrow: Dialog Between a Whig and Loco Foco