A "Born Leader Of Men."

Tuckerton Tamerlane Morey Mahosh Is a statesman of world-wide fame, With a notable knack at rhetorical bosh To glorify somebody's name-- Somebody chosen by Tuckerton's masters To succor the country from divers disasters Portentous to Mr. Mahosh.

Percy O'Halloran Tarpy Cabee Is in the political swim. He cares not a button for men, not he: Great principles captivate him-- Principles cleverly cut out and fitted To Percy's capacity, duly submitted, And fought for by Mr. Cabee.

Drusus Turn Swinnerton Porfer Fitzurse Holds office the most of his life. For men nor for principles cares he a curse, But much for his neighbor's wife. The Ship of State leaks, but he doesn't pump any, Messrs. Mahosh, Cabee & Company Pump for good Mr. Fitzurse.

TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE.

O Liberty, God-gifted-- Young and immortal maid-- In your high hand uplifted; The torch declares your trade.

Its crimson menace, flaming Upon the sea and shore, Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming That Law shall be no more.

Austere incendiary, We're blinking in the light; Where is your customary Grenade of dynamite?

Where are your staves and switches For men of gentle birth? Your mask and dirk for riches? Your chains for wit and worth?

Perhaps, you've brought the halters You used in the old days, When round religion's altars You stabled Cromwell's bays?

Behind you, unsuspected, Have you the axe, fair wench, Wherewith you once collected A poll-tax from the French?

America salutes you-- Preparing to disgorge. Take everything that suits you, And marry Henry George.

1894

AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS.

Christmas, you tell me, comes but once a year. One place it never comes, and that is here. Here, in these pages no good wishes spring, No well-worn greetings tediously ring-- For Christmas greetings are like pots of ore: The hollower they are they ring the more. Here shall no holly cast a spiny shade, Nor mistletoe my solitude invade, No trinket-laden vegetable come, No jorum steam with Sheolate of rum. No shrilling children shall their voices rear. Hurrah for Christmas without Christmas cheer!

No presents, if you please--I know too well What Herbert Spencer, if he didn't tell (I know not if he did) yet might have told Of present-giving in the days of old, When Early Man with gifts propitiated The chiefs whom most he doubted, feared and hated, Or tendered them in hope to reap some rude Advantage from the taker's gratitude. Since thus the Gift its origin derives (How much of its first character survives You know as well as I) my stocking's tied, My pocket buttoned--with my soul inside. I save my money and I save my pride.

Dinner? Yes; thank you--just a human body Done to a nutty brown, and a tear toddy To give me appetite; and as for drink, About a half a jug of blood, I think, Will do; for still I love the red, red wine, Coagulating well, with wrinkles fine Fretting the satin surface of its flood. O tope of kings--divine Falernian--blood!

Duse take the shouting fowls upon the limb, The kneeling cattle and the rising hymn! Has not a pagan rights to be regarded-- His heart assaulted and his ear bombarded With sentiments and sounds that good old Pan Even in his demonium would ban?

No, friends--no Christmas here, for I have sworn To keep my heart hard and my knees unworn. Enough you have of jester, player, priest: I as the skeleton attend your feast, In the mad revelry to make a lull With shaken finger and with bobbing skull. However you my services may flout, Philosophy disdain and reason doubt, I mean to hold in customary state, My dismal revelry and celebrate My yearly rite until the crack o' doom, Ignore the cheerful season's warmth and bloom And cultivate an oasis of gloom.

BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT.

Liars for witnesses; for lawyers brutes Who lose their tempers to retrieve their suits; Cowards for jurors; and for judge a clown Who ne'er took up the law, yet lays it down; Justice denied, authority abused, And the one honest person the accused-- Thy courts, my country, all these awful years, Move fools to laughter and the wise to tears.

AN EPITAPH.

Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse-- So small a tenant of so big a house! He joyed in fighting with his eyes (his fist Prudently pendent from a peaceful wrist) And loved to loll on the Parnassian mount, His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count,-- What poetry he'd written but for lack Of skill, when he had counted, to count back! Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steep To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep! To his rapt lip his soul no longer springs And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings. No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine, Spread wide their ears and hiccough "That's divine!" The genius of his purse no longer draws The pleasing thunders of a paid applause. All silent now, nor sound nor sense remains, Though riddances of worms improve his brains. All his no talents to the earth revert, And Fame concludes the record: "Dirt to dirt!"

THE POLITICIAN.

"Let Glory's sons manipulate The tiller of the Ship of State. Be mine the humble, useful toil To work the tiller of the soil."