For The New-York Tribune.
THE SONG OF THE WHlGS.

surgested by the S ong of,he shil
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Suggested by the IS ong Of the Shirt.
W,Ta hearts that never were FAINT,


With hopes not newly born, j,
The People once more are up in their Strength


Laughing their foes to scorn.
Strive. strive. strive


Spring, and Summer and Fail,
If you would thrive, thrive, thrive


Wings must be workies all.
Work-work-work,


Beyond Alegheny's rldge''
Work--work-work,


Beyond Cayuga Bridge.
Nen and women and boys


Bows and women and men
Think what the next four years may oe'
What the last four years have BEEN
Work-work-work,


Spring and Summer and fan,
Work-work-wor


Merchants and Farmers all.
/, IS who will be slave


Under Loco F6co sway
Better to Join the good axd brave,


And vote for the patriot CLAY.
Whlgs-Whigs-Whigs,


Dweers beside the sea
Whigs-Whigs-Wbigs,


Fellers of brake and tree;
Work-work-work


For our whole dear Country's sake,
Work-work-wOrk,


Till the Wings are all awake.
rk-work-Work,


In country and in town,
Work by the rising Sun


Work till the Sun goes down.
O, but to be among


The youth, and have it to say,
When t. manhood burst | voted first
For the patriot HENRY CLAY
Uith hearts that never arc faint,


With hopes forever strong,
Ready to work without complaint
Sooner than suffer wrong;
We work not for the spoils,


Like Incrcenary slaves,
But Wings are we who will be free
From Loco Foco knaves.
Work in the North and South,
Work in the East and West,
Work-work-Work,


Be up and doing your best.
Whether you live by the loom,
Whether you hold the plough,
Whether you write, or spin, or sow,
Unite like brothers now.
Yote-vote-vote;


IT the way that freemen fight,
Yote-vote-vote,


This is your dearest right.
Vote for the tried and true
Vote and your foe will fall,
The Ballot will make all Tyrannles quake
Sooner than powder or ball.
With hearts that never were faint,
With hopes not newly born,
The People once more are upln their strength,
Laughing their foes to scorn
Observation-Disclosures
They re increasing every day.
And still the Locos are running their rigs;
But they look aghast at the Song of the


Wings,


With the good old burden, CLAY. H. F.