"PHIL" CRIMMINS
Still as he climbed into the public view His charms of person more apparent grew, Till the pleased world that watched his airy grace Saw nothing of him but his nether face-- Forgot his follies with his head's retreat, And blessed his virtues as it viewed their seat.
CODEX HONORIS
Jacob Jacobs, of Oakland, he swore: "Dat Solomon Martin--I'll haf his gore!"
Solomon Martin, of Oakland, he said: "Of Shacob Shacobs der bleed I vill shed!"
So they met, with seconds and surgeon at call, And fought with pistol and powder and--all Was done in good faith,--as before I said, They fought with pistol and powder and--shed Tears, O my friends, for each other they marred Fighting with pistol and powder and--lard!
For the lead had been stolen away, every trace, And Christian hog-product supplied its place.
Then the shade of Moses indignant arose: "Quvicker dan lighdnings go vosh yer glose!"
Jacob Jacobs, of Oakland, they say, Applied for a pension the following day.
Solomon Martin, of Oakland, I hear, Will call himself Colonel for many a year.
TO W.H.L.B.
Refrain, dull orator, from speaking out, For silence deepens when you raise the shout; But when you hold your tongue we hear, at least, Your noise in mastering that little beast.
EMANCIPATION
Behold! the days of miracle at last Return--if ever they were truly past: From sinful creditors' unholy greed The church called Calvary at last is freed-- So called for there the Savior's crucified, Roberts and Carmany on either side.
The circling contribution-box no more Provokes the nod and simulated snore; No more the Lottery, no more the Fair, Lure the reluctant dollar from its lair, Nor Ladies' Lunches at a bit a bite Destroy the health yet spare the appetite, While thrifty sisters o'er the cauldron stoop To serve their God with zeal, their friends with soup, And all the brethren mendicate the earth With viewless placards: "We've been _so_ from birth!"
Sure of his wage, the pastor now can lend His whole attention to his latter end, Remarking with a martyr's prescient thrill The Hemp maturing on the cheerless Hill.
The holy brethren, lifting pious palms, Pour out their gratitude in prayer and psalms, Chant _De Profundis_, meaning "out of debt,"
And dance like mad--or would if they were let.
Deeply disguised (a deacon newly dead Supplied the means) Jack Satan holds his head As high as any and as loudly sings His _jubilate_ till each rafter rings.
"Rejoice, ye ever faithful," bellows he, "The debt is lifted and the temple free!"
Then says, aside, with gentle cachination: "I've got a mortgage on the congregation."
JOHNDONKEY
[There isn't a man living who does not have at least a sneaking reverence for a horse-shoe.--_Evening Post_.]
Thus the poor ass whose appetite has ne'er Known than the thistle any sweeter fare Thinks all the world eats thistles. Thus the clown, The wit and Mentor of the country town, Grins through the collar of a horse and thinks Others for pleasure do as he for drinks, Though secretly, because unwilling still In public to attest their lack of skill.
Each dunce whose life and mind all follies mar Believes as he is all men living are-- His vices theirs, their understandings his; Naught that he knows not, all he fancies, _is_.
How odd that any mind such stuff should boast!
How natural to write it in the _Post_!
HELL
The friends who stood about my bed Looked down upon my face and said: "God's will be done--the fellow's dead."
When from my body I was free I straightway felt myself, ah me!
Sink downward to the life to be.
Full twenty centuries I fell, And then alighted. "Here you dwell For aye," a Voice cried--"this is Hell!"
A landscape lay about my feet, Where trees were green and flowers sweet.
The climate was devoid of heat.
The sun looked down with gentle beam Upon the bosom of the stream, Nor saw I any sign of steam.
The waters by the sky were tinged, The hills with light and color fringed.
Birds warbled on the wing unsinged.
"Ah, no, this is not Hell," I cried; "The preachers ne'er so greatly lied.
This is Earth's spirit glorified!
"Good souls do not in Hades dwell, And, look, there's John P. Irish!" "Well,"
The Voice said, "that's what makes it Hell."
BY FALSE PRETENSES
John S. Hittell, whose sovereign genius wields The quill his tributary body yields; The author of an opera--that is, All but the music and libretto's his: A work renowned, whose formidable name, Linked with his own, repels the assault of fame From the high vantage of a dusty shelf, Secure from all the world except himself;-- Who told the tale of "Culture" in a screed That all might understand if some would read;-- Master of poesy and lord of prose, Dowered, like a setter, with a double nose; That one for Erato, for Clio this; He flushes both--not his fault if we miss;-- Judge of the painter's art, who'll straight proclaim The hue of any color you can name, And knows a painting with a canvas back Distinguished from a duck by the duck's quack;-- This thinker and philosopher, whose work Is famous from Commercial street to Turk, Has got a fortune now, his talent's meed.
A woman left it him who could not read, And so went down to death's eternal night Sweetly unconscious that the wretch could write.