the mud,
The only kind he used was blood!
Alas, that an immortal soul
Addicted to the flowing bowl
The emptied flagon should again
Replenish from a neighbor’s vein!
But, Mr. Shanahan was so
Constructed, and his taste that low.
Not more deplorable was he
In kind of thirst than in degree;
For sometimes fifty souls would pay
The debt of nature in a day
To free him from the shame and pain
Of dread Sobriety’s misreign.
His native land, proud of its sense
Of his unique inabstinence,
Abated something of its pride
At thought of his unfilled inside;
And some the boldness had to say
’Twere well if he were called away
To slake his thirst forevermore
In oceans of celestial gore.
But Hans Pietro Shanahan
(Who was a most ingenious man)
Knew that his thirst was mortal; so
Remained unsainted here below—
Unsainted and unsaintly, for
He neither went to glory nor
To abdicate his power deigned
Where, under Providence, he reigned,
But kept his Boss’s power accurst
To serve his wild uncommon thirst.
Which now had grown so truly great
It was a drain upon the State.
Soon, soon there came a time, alas!
When he turned down an empty glass—
All practicable means were vain
His special wassail to obtain.
In vain poor Decimation tried
To furnish forth the needful tide;
And Civil War as vainly shed
Its niggard offering of red.
Poor Shanahan! his thirst increased
Until he wished himself deceased,
Invoked the firearm and the knife,
But could not die to save his life!
He was so dry his own veins made
No answer to the seeking blade;
So weak that when he would have passed
Away he could not breathe his last.
’Twas then, when almost in despair,
(Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair)
He saw as in a dream a way
To wet afresh his mortal clay.
Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan
(Who was a most ingenious man)
Saw freedom, and with joy and pride
“Thalassa! (or Thalatta!)” cried.
Straight to the aldermen went he,
With many a “pull” and many a fee,
And many a most corrupt “combine”
(The Press for twenty cents a line
Held out and fought him—O, God, bless
Forevermore the holy Press!)
Till he had franchises complete
For trolley lines on every street!
The cars were builded and, they say,
Were run on rails laid every way—
Rhomboidal roads, and circular,
And oval—everywhere a car—
Square, dodecagonal (in great
Esteem the shape called Figure 8)
And many other kinds of form
As different as paths of a storm.
No other group of men’s abodes
E’er had so odd electric roads,
That winding in and winding out,
Began and ended all about.
No city had, unless in Mars,
That city’s fatal gift of cars.
They ran by day, they flew by night,
And O, the sorry, sorry sight!
And Hans Pietro Shanahan
(Who was a most ingenious man)
Incessantly, the Muse records,
Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords!
Each to his taste: some men prefer to play
At mystery, as others at piquet.
Some sit in mystic meditation; some
Parade the street with tambourine and drum.
One studies to decipher ancient lore
Which, proving stuff, he studies all the more;
Another swears that learning is but good
To darken things already understood,
Then writes upon Simplicity so well
That none agree on what he wants to tell,
And future ages will declare his pen
Inspired by gods with messages to men.
To found an ancient order, these devote
Their time—with ritual, regalia, goat,
Blankets for tossing, chairs of little ease
And all the modern inconveniences;
Those, saner, frown upon unmeaning rites
And go to church for rational delights.
So all are suited, shallow and profound,
The prophets prosper and the world goes round.
For me—unread in the occult, I’m fain
To damn all mysteries alike as vain,
Spurn the obscure and base my faith upon
The Revelations of the good St. John.
Nanine
We heard a song-bird trilling—
’Twas but a day ago.
Such rapture he was rilling
As only we could know.
This morning he is flinging
His music from the tree,
But something in the singing
Is not the same to me.
His inspiration fails him,
Or he has lost his skill.
Nanine, Nanine, what ails him
That he should sing so ill?
Nanine is not replying—
She hears no earthly song.
The sun and bird are lying
And the night is, O, so long!
Technology
’Twas a serious person with locks of gray
And a figure like a crescent;
His gravity, clearly, had come to stay,
But his smile was evanescent.
He stood and conversed with a neighbor and
With (likewise) a high falsetto;
And he stabbed his forefinger into his hand
As if it had been a stiletto.
His words, like the notes of a tenor drum,
Came out of his head unblended,
And the wonderful altitude of some
Was exceptionally splendid.
While executing a shake of the head,
With the hand, as it were, of a master,
This agonizing old gentleman said:
“ ’Twas a truly sad disaster!
“Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all,
Went down”—he paused and snuffled.
A single tear was observed to fall,
And the old man’s drum was muffled.
“A very calamitous year,” he said,
And again his head-piece hoary
He shook, and another pearl he shed,
As if he wept con amore.
“O lachrymose person,” I cried, “pray why
Should these failures so affect you?
With speculators in stocks no eye
That’s normal would ever connect you.”
He focused his orbs upon mine and smiled
In a sinister sort of manner.
“Young man,” he said, “your words are wild:
I spoke of the steamship Hanner.
“For she has went down in a howlin’ squall,
And my heart is nigh to breakin’—
Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all
Will never need undertakin’!
“I’m in the business myself,” said he,
“And you’ve mistook my expression;
For I uses the technical terms, you see,
Employed in my perfession.”
That old undertaker has joined the throng
On the other side of the River,
But I’m still unhappy to think I’m a “long,”
And a tape-line makes me shiver.
A Reply to a Letter
O nonsense, parson—tell me not they thrive
And jubilate who follow your dictation.
The good are the unhappiest lot alive—
I know they are from careful observation.
If freedom from the terrors of damnation
Lengthens the visage like a telescope,
And lachrymosity’s a sign of hope,
Then I’ll continue, in my dreadful plight,
To tread the dusky paths of sin, and grope
Contentedly without your lantern’s light;
And though
