Great Scott! what a nasty day that was— When every galoot in our crack Division who didn't lie flat was Dissuaded from further attack By the bullet's felicitous whack. 'Twas there that our major slept under Some cannon of ours on the crest, Till they woke him by stilling their thunder, And he cursed them for breaking his rest, And died in the midst of his jest. That night—it was late in November— The dead seemed uncommonly chill To the touch; and one chap I remember Who took it exceedingly ill When I dragged myself over his bill. Well, comrades, I'm off now—good morning. Your talk is as pleasant as pie, But, pardon me, one word of warning: Speak little of self, say I. That's my way. God bless you. Good-bye.
THE KING OF BORES.
Abundant bores afflict this world, and some Are bores of magnitude that-come and—no, They're always coming, but they never go— Like funeral pageants, as they drone and hum Their lurid nonsense like a muffled drum, Or bagpipe's dread unnecessary flow. But one superb tormentor I can show— Prince Fiddlefaddle, Duc de Feefawfum. He the johndonkey is who, when I pen Amorous verses in an idle mood To nobody, or of her, reads them through And, smirking, says he knows the lady; then Calls me sly dog. I wish he understood This tender sonnet's application too.
HISTORY.
What wrecked the Roman power? One says vice, Another indolence, another dice. Emascle says polygamy. 'Not so,' Says Impycu—''twas luxury and show.' The parson, lifting up a brow of brass, Swears superstition gave the coup de grace, Great Allison, the statesman-chap affirms 'Twas lack of coins (croaks Medico: ''T was worms') And John P. Jones the swift suggestion collars, Averring the no coins were silver dollars. Thus, through the ages, each presuming quack Turns the poor corpse upon its rotten back, Holds a new 'autopsy' and finds that death Resulted partly from the want of breath, But chiefly from some visitation sad That points his argument or serves his fad. They're all in error—never human mind The cause of the disaster has divined. What slew the Roman power? Well, provided You'll keep the secret, I will tell you. I did.
THE HERMIT.
To a hunter from the city, Overtaken by the night, Spake, in tones of tender pity For himself, an aged wight: 'I have found the world a fountain Of deceit and Life a sham. I have taken to the mountain And a Holy Hermit am. 'Sternly bent on Contemplation, Far apart from human kind—— In the hill my habitation, In the Infinite my mind. 'Ten long years I've lived a dumb thing, Growing bald and bent with dole. Vainly seeking for a Something To engage my gloomy soul. 'Gentle Pilgrim, while my roots you Eat, and quaff my simple drink,
