Part 4 (1/2)

Put double sentries at the doors And pull the curtains down, And tell the democratic bores That I am out of town; It's funny folks haint decency Enough to stay away, When I'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, I'm to be wedded to-day!

The bride, you say, is calm and cool In satin robes of white-- Well, _I_ am stolid, as a rule, But now I'm fl.u.s.tered quite; Upon a surging sea of bliss My soul is borne away, For I'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, I'm to be wedded to-day!

TO G. C.

(July 12, 1886.)

They say our president has stuck Above his good wife's door The sign provocative of luck-- A horseshoe--nothing more.

Be hushed, O party hates, the while That emblem lingers there, And thou, dear fates, propitious smile Upon the wedded pair.

I've tried the horseshoe's weird intent And felt its potent joy-- G.o.d bless you, Mr. President, And may it be a boy.

TO DR. F. W. R.

If I were rich enough to buy A case of wine (though I abhor it), I'd send a quart of extra dry And willingly get trusted for it.

But, lackaday! _You_ know that I'm As poor as Job's historic turkey-- In lieu of Mumm, accept this rhyme, An honest gift though somewhat jerky.

This is your silver wedding day-- You didn't mean to let me know it!

And yet your smiles and raiments gay Beyond all peradventure show it!

By all you say and do it's clear A birdling in your heart is singing, And everywhere you go you hear The old-time bridal bells a-ringing.

Ah, well, G.o.d grant that these dear chimes May mind you of the sweetness only Of those far distant, callow times When you were Bened.i.c.k and lonely-- And when an angel blessed your lot-- For angel is your helpmeet, truly-- And when, to share the joy she brought, Came other little angels, duly.

So here's a health to you and wife-- Long may you mock the Reaper's warning, And may the evening of your life In rising sons renew the morning; May happiness and peace and love Come with each morrow to caress ye, And when you're done with earth, above-- G.o.d bless ye, dear old friend--G.o.d bless ye!

HORACE'S ODE TO ”LYDIA” ROCHE.

No longer the boys, With their music and noise, Demand your election as mayor; Such a milk-wagon hack Has no place on the track When his rival's a thoroughbred stayer.

With your coa.r.s.e, shallow wit Every rational cit At last is completely disgusted; The tool of the rings, Trusts, barons, and things, What wonder, I wonder, you're busted!

As soon as that Yerkes Finds out you can't work his Intrigues for the popular nickel, With a tear to deceive you He'll drop you and leave you In your normal condition--a pickle.

Go, dodderer, go Where the whisker winds blow And spasms of penitence trouble; Or flounder and whoop In an ocean of soup Where the pills of adversity bubble.

A PARAPHRASE, CIRCA 1715.