Black Beetles in Amber

Her trumpet she filled with a gallon of ink,
And all through the Press, with a devilish glee,
She sputtered and spattered the name of J.D.

TO A STRAY DOG

Well, Towser (I'm thinking your name must be Towser),
  You're a decentish puppy as puppy dogs go,
For you never, I'm sure, could have dined upon trowser,
  And your tail's unimpeachably curled just so.
But, dear me! your name—if 'tis yours—is a 'poser':
  Its meaning I cannot get anywise at,
When spoken correctly perhaps it is Toser,
  And means one who toses. Max Muller, how's that?
I ne'er was ingenious at all at divining
  A word's prehistorical, primitive state,
Or finding its root, like a mole, by consigning
  Its bloom to the turnep-top's sorrowful fate.
And, now that I think of it well, I'm no nearer
 The riddle's solution than ever—for how's
My pretty invented word, 'tose,' any clearer
  In point of its signification than 'towse'?
So, Towser (or Toser), I mean to rename you
  In honor of some good and eminent man,
In the light and the heat of whose quickening fame you
  May grow to an eminent dog if you can.
In sunshine like his you'll not long be a croucher:
 The Senate shall hear you—for that I will vouch.
Come here, sir. Stand up. I rechristen you Goucher.
 But damn you! I'll shoot you if ever you gouch!

IN HIS HAND

De Young (in Chicago the story is told)
'Took his life in his hand,' like a warrior bold,
And stood before Buckley—who thought him behind,
For Buckley, the man-eating monster is blind.
'Count fairly the ballots!' so rang the demand
Of the gallant De Young, with his life in his hand.
'Tis done, and the struggle is ended. No more
He havocs the battle-field, gilt with the gore
Of slain reputations. No more he defies
His 'lying opponents' with deadlier lies.
His trumpet is hushed and his belt is unbound—
His enemies' characters cumber the ground.
They bloat on the war-plain with ink all asoak,
The fortunate candidates perching to croak.
No more he will charge, with a daring divine,
His foes with corruption, his friends by the line.
The thunders are stilled of the horrid campaign,
De Young is triumphant, and never again
Will he need, with his life in his hand, to roar:
'Count fair or, by G——, I will die on your floor!'
His life has been spared, for his sins to atone,
And the hand that he took it in washed with cologne.

A DEMAGOGUE

   'Yawp, yawp, yawp!
   Under the moon and sun.
   It's aye the rabble,
   And I to gabble,
And hey! for the tale that is never done.
   'Chant, chant, chant!
To woo the reluctant vote.
   I would I were dead
   And my say were said
And my song were sung to its ultimate note.
   'Stab, stab, stab!
Ah! the weapon between my teeth—
   I'm sick of the flash of it;
   See how the slash of it
Misses the foeman to mangle the sheath!
   'Boom, boom, boom!
I'm beating the mammoth drum.
  My nethermost tripes
  I blow into the pipes—
It's oh! for the honors that never come!'
   'Twas the dolorous blab
   Of a tramping 'scab'—
   'Twas the eloquent Swift