LUCIFER OF THE TORCH
O Reverend Ravlin, once with sounding lung You shook the bloody banner of your tongue, Urged all the fiery boycotters afield And swore you'd rather follow them than yield, Alas, how brief the time, how great the change!-- Your dogs of war are ailing all of mange; The loose leash dangles from your finger-tips, But the loud "havoc" dies upon your lips.
No spirit animates your feeble clay-- You'd rather yield than even run away.
In vain McGlashan labors to inspire Your pallid nostril with his breath of fire: The light of battle's faded from your face-- You keep the peace, John Chinaman his place.
O Ravlin, what cold water, thrown by whom Upon the kindling Boycott's ruddy bloom, Has slaked your parching blood-thirst and allayed The flash and shimmer of your lingual blade?
Your salary--your salary's unpaid!
In the old days, when Christ with scourges drave The Ravlins headlong from the Temple's nave, Each bore upon his pelt the mark divine-- The Boycott's red authenticating sign.
Birth-marked forever in surviving hurts, Glowing and smarting underneath their shirts, Successive Ravlins have revenged their shame By blowing every coal and flinging flame.
And you, the latest (may you be the last!) Endorsed with that hereditary, vast And monstrous rubric, would the feud prolong, Save that cupidity forbids the wrong.
In strife you preferably pass your days-- But brawl no moment longer than it pays.
By shouting when no more you can incite The dogs to put the timid sheep to flight To load, for you, the brambles with their fleece, You cackle concord to congenial geese, Put pinches of goodwill upon their tails And pluck them with a touch that never fails.
THE "WHIRLIGIG OF TIME"
Dr. Jewell speaks of Balaam And his vices, to assail 'em.
Ancient enmities how cruel!-- Balaam cudgeled once a Jewell.
A RAILROAD LACKEY
Ben Truman, you're a genius and can write, Though one would not suspect it from your looks.
You lack that certain spareness which is quite Distinctive of the persons who make books.
You show the workmanship of Stanford's cooks About the region of the appetite, Where geniuses are singularly slight.
Your friends the Chinamen are understood, Indeed, to speak of you as "belly good."
Still, you can write--spell, too, I understand-- Though how two such accomplishments can go, Like sentimental schoolgirls, hand in hand Is more than ever I can hope to know.
To have one talent good enough to show Has always been sufficient to command The veneration of the brilliant band Of railroad scholars, who themselves, indeed, Although they cannot write, can mostly read.
There's Towne and Fillmore, Goodman and Steve Gage, Ned Curtis of Napoleonic face, Who used to dash his name on glory's page "A.M." appended to denote his place Among the learned. Now the last faint trace Of Nap. is all obliterate with age, And Ned's degree less precious than his wage.
He says: "I done it," with his every breath.
"Thou canst not say I did it," says Macbeth.
Good land! how I run on! I quite forgot Whom this was meant to be about; for when I think upon that odd, unearthly lot-- Not quite Creedhaymonds, yet not wholly men-- I'm dominated by my rebel pen That, like the stubborn bird from which 'twas got, Goes waddling forward if I will or not.
To leave your comrades, Ben, I'm now content: I'll meet them later if I don't repent.
You've writ a letter, I observe--nay, more, You've published it--to say how good you think The coolies, and invite them to come o'er In thicker quantity. Perhaps you drink No corporation's wine, but love its ink; Or when you signed away your soul and swore On railrogue battle-fields to shed your gore You mentally reserved the right to shed The raiment of your character instead.
You're naked, anyhow: unragged you stand In frank and stark simplicity of shame.
And here upon your flank, in letters grand, The iron has marked you with your owner's name.
Needless, for none would steal and none reclaim.
But "eland $tanford" is a pretty brand, Wrought by an artist with a cunning hand But come--this naked unreserve is flat: Don your habiliment--you're fat, you're fat!
THE LEGATEE
In fair San Francisco a good man did dwell, And he wrote out a will, for he didn't feel well, Said he: "It is proper, when making a gift, To stimulate virtue by comforting thrift."
So he left all his property, legal and straight, To "the cursedest rascal in all of the State."
But the name he refused to insert, for, said he; "Let each man consider himself legatee."
In due course of time that philanthropist died, And all San Francisco, and Oakland beside-- Save only the lawyers--came each with his claim The lawyers preferring to manage the same.
The cases were tried in Department Thirteen, Judge Murphy presided, sedate and serene, But couldn't quite specify, legal and straight, The cursedest rascal in all of the State.
And so he remarked to them, little and big-- To claimants: "You skip!" and to lawyers: "You dig!"
They tumbled, tumultuous, out of his court And left him victorious, holding the fort.
'Twas then that he said: "It is plain to my mind This property's ownerless--how can I find The cursedest rascal in all of the State?"
So he took it himself, which was legal and straight.
"DIED OF A ROSE"
A reporter he was, and he wrote, wrote he: "The grave was covered as thick as could be With floral tributes"--which reading, The editor man he said, he did so: "For 'floral tributes' he's got for to go, For I hold the same misleading."
Then he called him in and he pointed sweet To a blooming garden across the street, Inquiring: "What's them a-growing?"
The reporter chap said: "Why, where's your eyes?
Them's floral tributes!" "Arise, arise,"
The editor said, "and be going."
A LITERARY HANGMAN
Beneath his coat of dirt great Neilson loves To hide the avenging rope.
He handles all he touches without gloves, Excepting soap.
AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR