No person was absent of all whom one meets. Lord Mammon himself bowed them into their seats, While good Sir John Satan attended the door And Sexton Beelzebub managed the floor, Respectfully keeping each dog to its rug, Preserving the peace between poodle and pug. Twelve bridesmaids escorted the bride up the aisle To blush in her blush and to smile in her smile; Twelve groomsmen supported the eminent groom To scowl in his scowl and to gloom in his gloom. The rites were performed by the hand and the lip Of his Grace the Diocesan, Billingham Pip, Assisted by three able-bodied divines. He prayed and they grunted, he read, they made signs. Such fashion, such beauty, such dressing, such grace Were ne'er before seen in that heavenly place! That night, full of gin, and all blazing inside, Sir Impycu blackened the eyes of his bride.
A BUBBLE.
Mrs. Mehitable Marcia Moore Was a dame of superior mind, With a gown which, modestly fitting before, Was greatly puffed up behind. The bustle she wore was ingeniously planned With an inspiration bright: It magnified seven diameters and Was remarkably nice and light. It was made of rubber and edged with lace And riveted all with brass, And the whole immense interior space Inflated with hydrogen gas. The ladies all said when she hove in view Like the round and rising moon: 'She's a stuck up thing!' which was partly true, And men called her the Captive Balloon. To Manhattan Beach for a bath one day She went and she said: 'O dear! If I leave off this what will people say? I shall look so uncommonly queer!' So a costume she had accordingly made To take it all nicely in, And when she appeared in that suit arrayed, She was greeted with many a grin. Proudly and happily looking around, She waded out into the wet, But the water was very, very profound, And her feet and her forehead met! As her bubble drifted away from the shore, On the glassy billows borne, All cried: 'Why, where is Mehitable Moore? I saw her go in, I'll be sworn!' Then the bulb it swelled as the sun grew hot, Till it burst with a sullen roar, And the sea like oil closed over the spot— Farewell, O Mehitable Moore!
A RENDEZVOUS.
Nightly I put up this humble petition: 'Forgive me, O Father of Glories, My sins of commission, my sins of omission, My sins of the Mission Dolores.'
FRANCINE.
Did I believe the angels soon would call You, my beloved, to the other shore, And I should never see you any more, I love you so I know that I should fall Into dejection utterly, and all Love's pretty pageantry, wherein we bore Twin banners bravely in the tumult's fore, Would seem as shadows idling on a wall. So daintily I love you that my love Endures no rumor of the winter's breath, And only blossoms for it thinks the sky Forever gracious, and the stars above Forever friendly. Even the fear of death Were frost wherein its roses all would die.
