Cora Lee

Would you hear the story told Of the controversy bold, That this day I did behold, In a court of low degree, Where his Honor sat like fate, To decide betwixt the state And a wanton villain’s mate, Named Cora Lee?

The bold chief of stars was near, As a witness to appear. (By his order, Cora dear Was languishing below.) And for counsel she had got A descendant of old Wat— Noted for his daring plot, Some years ago.

It was he commenced the fuss, “For,” said he, “by this and thus, Here I smell an animus As strong as musk of yore; And it’s my condensed belief, That in language terse and brief, I can trace it to the chief, E’en to his door.”

Then to all it did appear That the chief was seized with fear; To the lawyer he drew near, And to him muttered low: “I could never think that ye Would be quite so hard with me; You had better let me be, And travel slow.”

Then the lawyer quit his chair As if wasps were buzzing there, And with quite a tragic air, Addressed his Honor thus— “At your hands I claim protection. Keep your eyes in this direction, Take cognizance of his action, This animus!”

Then arose the chief of stars, And his visage shone like Mars, When he recks not battle scars, But charges to the fray. And his hand began to glide To his pocket deep and wide, Where a weapon well supplied In waiting lay.

“Ho!” he cried, “you shyster hound, If you go on nosing round Till an animus you’ve found, My dear sir, hearken you: I will open, by my soul! In your carcass such a hole, You will think a wagon pole Has run you through.

“You would prate about the law? You would magnify a flaw? You would touch me on the raw? So now, sir, say no more! Keep a padlock on your jaw, Not a sentence, or I’ll draw, And I’ll scatter you like straw Around the floor!”

Now the Judge’s face grew red As a turkey gobbler’s head When a scarlet robe is spread On the lawn or fence. “I adjourn the court,” he cried, “’Till that animus has died, And is buried head and hide Far from hence.”

Then the rush was for the door; From the corridors they pour,— Three old women were run o’er Within the justice hall; And above the tramp and patter, And the cursing and the chatter, And the awful din and clatter, Rose their squall.

When the open air was gained, Then the epithets were rained, And the passer’s ear was pained With profanity flung loose, Back and forth the wordy pair, Shameless swapped opinions there; ’Till all parties got their share Of vile abuse.

When the man of “briefs” would flee, Chieftain followed like a bee, Or a shark a ship at sea When hunger presses sore; ’Till, enraged, the lawyer, he Cried, “If fight you want of me, Wait with patience minutes three, Not any more;

“’Till I hasten up the stair To my office, and prepare, Like yourself for rip and tear, And piling bodies dead. Then, if you can blaze it faster, Carve designs for probe or plaster, Quicker work a soul’s disaster, Just waltz ahead.”

But alas! his hasty tongue, Vulgar name or sentence flung, And the chieftain’s pride was stung Down to the marrow bone. Now upon him, head and tail, Pitched policemen, tooth and nail, Hot as bees when they assail A lazy drone.

And upon the evening breeze Rose the “begorras” and the “yees” Of a dozen Mulroonees, As they roughly hale The poor lawyer through the street, Sometimes lifted from his feet, Sometimes o’er the noddle beat, Toward the jail.

Now upon a truss of straw, Lies the counsellor-at-law, Wishing Satan had his paw On wily Cora Lee. For himself to grief is brought, While the animus he sought Running is, as free as thought, Or like his fee.

Footnote 1:

Private enmity towards the prisoner.