Part 15 (2/2)

A JACK-AT-ALL-VIEWS

So, Estee, you are still alive! I thought That you had died and were a blessed ghost I know at least your coffin once was bought With Railroad money; and 'twas said by most Historians that Stanford made a boast The seller ”threw you in.” That goes for naught-- Man takes delight in fancy's fine inventions, And woman too, 'tis said, if they are French ones.

Do you remember, Estee--ah, 'twas long And long ago!--how fierce you grew and hot When anything impeded the straight, strong, Wild sweep of the great billow you had got Atop of, like a swimmer bold? Great Scott!

How fine your wavemans.h.i.+p! How loud your song Of ”Down with railroads!” When the wave subsided And left you stranded you were much divided.

Then for a time you were content to wade The waters of the ”robber barons'” moat.

To fetch, and carry was your humble trade, And ferry Stanford over in a boat, Well paid if he bestowed the kindly groat And spoke you fair and called you pretty maid.

And when his stomach seemed a bit unsteady You got your serviceable basin ready.

Strange man! how odd to see you, smug and spruce, There at Chicago, burrowed in a Chair, Not made to measure and a deal too loose, And see you lift your little arm and swear Democracy shall be no more! If it's a fair And civil question, and not too abstruse, Were you elected as a ”robber baron,”

Or as a Communist whose teeth had hair on?

MY LORD POET

”Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat;”

Who sings for n.o.bles, he should n.o.ble be.

There's no _non sequitur_, I think, in that, And this is logic plain as a, b, c.

Now, Hector Stuart, you're a Scottish prince, If right you fathom your descent--that fall From grace; and since you have no peers, and since You have no kind of n.o.bleness at all, 'Twere better to sing little, lest you wince When made by heartless critics to sing small.

And yet, my liege, I bid you not despair-- Ambition conquers but a realm at once: For European bays arrange your hair-- Two continents, in time, shall crown you Dunce!

TO THE FOOL-KILLER

Ah, welcome, welcome! Sit you down, old friend; Your pipe I'll serve, your bottle I'll attend.

'Tis many a year since you and I have known Society more pleasant than our own In our brief respites from excessive work-- I pointing out the hearts for you to dirk.

What have you done since lately at this board We canva.s.sed the deserts of all the horde And chose what names would please the people best, Engraved on coffin-plates--what bounding breast Would give more satisfaction if at rest?

But never mind--the record cannot fail: The loftiest monuments will tell the tale.

I trust ere next we meet you'll slay the chap Who calls old Tyler ”Judge” and Merry ”Cap”-- Calls John P. Irish ”Colonel” and John P., Whose surname Jack-son speaks his pedigree, By the same t.i.tle--men of equal rank Though one is belly all, and one all shank, Showing their several service in the fray: One fought for food and one to get away.

I hope, I say, you'll kill the ”t.i.tle” man Who saddles one on every back he can, Then rides it from Beersheba to Dan!

Another fool, I trust, you will perform Your office on while my resentment's warm: He shakes my hand a dozen times a day If, luckless, I so often cross his way, Though I've three senses besides that of touch, To make me conscious of a fool too much.

Seek him, friend Killer, and your purpose make Apparent as his guilty hand you take, And set him trembling with a solemn: ”Shake!”

But chief of all the addle-witted crew Conceded by the Hangman's League to you, The fool (his dam's acquainted with a knave) Whose fluent pen, of his no-brain the slave, Strews notes of introduction o'er the land And calls it hospitality--his hand May palsy seize ere he again consign To me his friend, as I to Hades mine!

Pity the wretch, his faults howe'er you see, Whom A accredits to his victim, B.

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