upon poles performing capers
Are not exalted, they are only “treed.”
A glory that is kindled by the papers
Is transient as the phosphorescent vapors
That shine in graveyards and are seen, indeed,
But while the bodies that supply the gas
Are turning into weeds to feed an ass.
One can but wonder sometimes how it feels
To be an ass—a beast we beat condignly
Because, like yours, his life is in his heels
And he is prone to use them unbenignly.
The ladies (bless them!) say you dance divinely.
I like St. Vitus better, though, who deals
His feet about him with a grace more just,
And hops, not for he will, but for he must.
Doubtless it gratifies you to observe
Elbowy girls and adipose mamas
All looking adoration as you swerve
This way and that; but prosperous papas
Laugh in their sleeves at you, and their ha-has,
If heard, would somewhat agitate your nerve.
And dames and maids who keep you on their shelves
Don’t seem to want a closer tie themselves.
Gods! what a life you live!—by day a slave
To your exacting back and urgent belly;
Intent to earn and vigilant to save;
By night, attired so sightly and so smelly,
With countenance as luminous as jelly,
Bobbing and bowing! King of hearts and knave
Of diamonds, I’d bet a silver brick
If brains were trumps you’d never take a trick.
Expositor Veritatis
I slept, and, waking in the years to be,
Heard voices, and approaching whence they came,
Listened indifferently where a key
Had lately been removed. An ancient dame
Said to her daughter: “Go to yonder caddy
And get some emery to scour your daddy.”
And then I knew—some intuition said—
That tombs were not and men had cleared their shelves
Of urns; and the electro-plated dead
Stood pedestaled as statues of themselves.
With famous dead men all the public places
Were thronged, and some in piles awaited bases.
One mighty structure’s high façade alone
Contained a single monumental niche,
Where, central in that steep expanse of stone,
Gleamed the familiar form of Thomas Fitch.
A man cried: “Lo! Truth’s temple and its founder!”
Then gravely added: “I’m her chief expounder.”
The Troubadour
Professor Gayley, you’re a great man, sure!
They say that you can almost fly!—can spell
And parse, but cannot figure well
(For mathematics is not literature)
And hold—with rancor—that twice two are fewer
Than they’re cracked up to be. Let sinners tell
Wherein you disappoint, but I will swell
The chorus of your greatness. I’ll procure
For that exploit a megaphone of brass,
And roar your excellences to the sky,
And fill with witness all the world! Alas,
You can’t write poetry! No more can I,
But that, you’ll notice, is another matter.
Besides, I’m less ubiloquent, and fatter.
You hold the Chair, so your credentials say,
Of English Letters. That is well and fine.
Through teaching diligently, line by line,
You may yourself have the good luck some day
To learn enough of it to bid you stay
Your red right hand from making it. The nine
Dear Muses then with laurels will entwine
Your brows and leg it lightly to display
Their joy. O bold, bad poet, hear
These words of wisdom (from a grizzled head)
Inserted civilly into your ear:
In teaching verse you’ll better earn your bread,
And on our feelings less unkindly trample,
If you will work by precept, not example.
Not all the shouting capitals you use
Can strengthen feebleness, nor all the skill
You lack conceal the foolish hates that fill
The fountain whence the driblet of your views
Flows in a dirty channel to suffuse
With slime the British Empire! Dip your quill
In something sweeter and you’ll write less ill—
At least your rant we better can excuse.
No doubt you wish you had been born a Boer
(Spelling excepted, so indeed you were;
A Bore as well) but that’s a very poor
Ambition. By the Lord! I should prefer
To be a Briton though they shot me daily
And threw my body to your hoofs, Jack Gayley.
A Finger on the Lips
O Mike, have ye heard the good news?
They’re gwan to have Home Rule at last;
An’ a Parlyment fine they will chuse,
An’ wurruk’s a thing o’ the past.
They’ll vote every man an estate,
Wid all he can drink and ate.
Indade it’s the blessedest day
We’ve seen since we landed here
In America. Whisht! though—I say—
Bedad, it’s no place to cheer!
For Home Rule we mustn’t hurroo—
They’ll be wantin’ it here if we do.
Three Highwaymen
A street contractor, t’other morn,
Walked out before the day was born.
The silver moon beyond his reach
Had prudently retired, and each
Fair golden star his clutch that feared
Trembled, grew pale, and disappeared.
The sun rose not—afraid to risk
His tempting, double-eagle disk.
Our hero—why spin out the verse?—
Two robbers robbed him of his purse,
Left him uncomfortably spread
On his own pavement, semi-dead,
And ran away exultant. He
Sang “Murder!” “Fire!” in every key,
Until politeness bade him cease
For fear of waking the police.
Then straight unto the Chief, all faint,
He made his way and his complaint:
“I met two robber-men,” said he;
“We battled and—well, look at me!—
Sad citizen, O Chief, you see.”
“How much?” asked that sententious man.
“Well, sir, as nearly as I can
Compute it, though I gave them fits,
They got away—with my six bits.”
“Why, damn your avaricious soul!”
The Chief said: “do you claim the whole?
You did quite well to get, begad,
Within six bits of all they had!”
To “Colonel” Dan Burns
They say, my lord, that you’re a Warwick. Well,
The title’s an absurd one, I believe:
You make no kings, you have no kings to sell,
Though really ’twere easy to conceive
You stuffing half-a-dozen up your sleeve.
No, you’re no Warwick, skillful from the shell
To hatch out sovereigns. On a mare’s nest, maybe,
You’d incubate a little jackass baby.
I fancy, too, that it is naught but stuff,
This “power” that you’re said to be “behind
The throne.” I’m sure ’twere accurate enough
To represent you simply as inclined
To push poor Markham (ailing in his mind
And body, which were never very tough)
Round in an invalid’s wheeled chair. Such menial
Employment to low natures is congenial.
No, Dan, you’re an impostor every way:
A human bubble, for “the earth,”
