Let others shine in diamonds bright,
  Or hoard their greenbacks, bonds or gold,
You have your jewels in your sight,
  And hearing, like the matron old;
And should they still continue to increase,
You’ll beat the model mother of old Greece.

Then hail Columbia, happy land! 
  While California yields her ore,
May you increase your jewel band,
  By adding every year one more;
And when you’re asked your jewels to display. 
Point to your score of sons saying “these are they.”

THE MARKET-MAN’S LICENSE,

Or the farmer’s appeal from A jackass to the Mayor.

The following poem grew out of a misunderstanding between Mr. Scott and the clerk of the Wilmington market.  In the winter of 1868, Mr. Scott was in the habit of selling hominy in the market, and the clerk treated him rudely and caused him to leave his usual stand and remove to another one.  From this arbitrary exercise of power Mr. Scott appealed to the Mayor, who reinstated him in his old place.  Mr. Scott soon afterwards had several hundred of the poems printed and scattered them throughout the market.  In an introductory note he says, “the lines referring to Mayor Valentine are intended as a compliment to that officer, as well as a play on his official title of Mayor.”

I’ve horses seen of noble blood,
  And stopped to gaze and stare: 
But ne’er before to-day I stood
  In presence of a Mayor.

I’ve talked with rulers, in and ex,
  With working man and boss;
Mayor Valentine! they you unsex—­
  You surely are a horse.

For every blooded horse one meets,
  Or clever mare he passes,
He finds in all the city streets
  A score of brainless asses.

A Jackass, in the days of old,
  Dress’d in a lion’s skin,
Went forth to ape the lion bold,
  And raised a mighty din: 

His ass-ship’s ears he could not hide;
  His roaring would not pass;
The startled beasts his ears descried,
  And recognized the ass.

The moral of this tale you’ll meet
  Each market day in town,
With scales in hand, in Market street,
  Dress’d in the lion’s gown: 

He roars, ’tis true, but scan him well
  Whene’er you see him pass;
Look at his ears and you can tell
  He’s but a braying ass.

LINES

On the death of Mrs. Elizabeth Scott.

Ransom’d spirit, spread thy wings,
  Leave thy broken house of clay;
Soar from earth and earthly things,
  To the realms of endless day.

Weary pilgrim, take thy rest,
  Thine has been a tiresome road;
Aching head and tortur’d breast,
  Added to thy galling load.

Patient sufferer, dry thy tears,
  All thy sorrows now are o’er;
Foes without, or inward fears,
  Never can afflict thee more.