Black Beetles in Amber Part 21

Nay, Abner Doble, you'll not get from me My voice and influence: I'll cheer instead, Some other man; for when my voice ascends a Tall pinnacle of praise, and at high C Sustains a chosen name, it shan't be said My influence is naught but influenza.

A CHEATING PREACHER

Munhall, to save my soul you bravely try, Although, to save my soul, I can't say why.

'Tis naught to you, to me however much-- Why, bless it! you might save a million such Yet lose your own; for still the "means of grace"

That you employ to turn us from the place By the arch-enemy of souls frequented Are those which to ensnare us he invented!

I do not say you utter falsehoods--I Would scorn to give to ministers the lie: They cannot fight--their calling has estopped it.

True, I did not persuade them to adopt it.

But, Munhall, when you say the Devil dwells In all the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of all the infidels-- Making a lot of individual h.e.l.ls In gentlemen instinctively who shrink From thinking anything that you could think, You talk as I should if some world I trod Where lying is acceptable to G.o.d.

I don't at all object--forbid it Heaven!-- That your discourse you temperately leaven With airy reference to wicked souls Cursing impenitent on glowing coals, Nor quarrel with your fancy, blithe and fine, Which represents the wickedest as mine.

Each ornament of style my spirit eases: The subject saddens, but the manner pleases.

But when you "deal d.a.m.nation round" 'twere sweet To think hereafter that you did not cheat.

Deal, and let all accept what you allot 'em.

But, blast you! you are dealing from the bottom!

A CROCODILE

Nay, Peter Robertson, 'tis not for you To blubber o'er Max Taubles for he's dead.

By Heaven! my hearty, if you only knew How better is a grave-worm in the head Than brains like yours--how far more decent, too, A tomb in far Corea than a bed Where Peter lies with Peter, you would covet His happier state and, dying, learn to love it.

In the recesses of the silent tomb No Maunderings of yours disturb the peace.

Your mental bag-pipe, droning like the gloom Of Hades audible, perforce must cease From troubling further; and that crack o' doom, Your mouth, shaped like a long bow, shall release In vain such shafts of wit as it can utter-- The ear of death can't even hear them flutter.

THE AMERICAN PARTY

Oh, Marcus D. Boruck, me hearty, I sympathize wid ye, poor lad!

A man that's shot out of his party Is mighty onlucky, bedad!

An' the sowl o' that man is sad.

But, Marcus, gossoon, ye desarve it-- Ye know for yerself that ye do, For ye j'ined not intendin' to sarve it, But hopin' to make it sarve you, Though the roll of its members wuz two.

The other wuz Pixley, an' "Surely,"

Ye said, "he's a kite that wall sail."

An' so ye hung till him securely, Enactin' the role of a tail.

But there wuzn't the ghost of a gale!

But the party to-day has behind it A powerful backin', I'm told; For just enough Irish have j'ined it (An' I'm m'anin' to be enrolled) To kick ye out into the cold.

It's hard on ye, darlint, I'm thinkin'-- So young--so American, too-- Wid bypa.s.sers grinnin' an' winkin', An' sayin', wid ref'rence to you: "Get onto the murtherin' Joo!"

Republicans never will take ye-- They had ye for many a year; An' Dimocrats--angels forsake ye!-- If ever ye come about here We'll brand ye and scollop yer ear!

UNCOLONELED

Though war-signs fail in time of peace, they say, Two awful portents gloom the public mind: All Mexico is arming for the fray And Colonel Mark McDonald has resigned!

We know not by what instinct he divined The coming trouble--may be, like the steed Described by Job, he smelled the fight afar.

Howe'er it be, he left, and for that deed Is an aspirant to the G.A.R.

When cannon flame along the Rio Grande A citizen's commission will be handy.

THE GATES AJAR

The Day of Judgment spread its glare O'er continents and seas.

The graves cracked open everywhere, Like pods of early peas.

Up to the Court of Heaven sped The souls of all mankind; Republicans were at the head And Democrats behind.

Reub. Lloyd was there before the tube Of Gabriel could call: The dead in Christ rise first, and Reub.

Had risen first of all.

He sat beside the Throne of Flame As, to the trumpet's sound, Four statesmen of the Party Came And ranged themselves around--

Pure spirits shining like the sun, From taint and blemish free-- Great William Stow was there for one, And George A. Knight for three.

Souls less indubitably white Approached with anxious air, Judge Blake at head of them by right Of having been a Mayor.

His ermine he had donned again, Long laid away in gums.

'Twas soiled a trifle by the stains Of politicians' thumbs.

Then Knight addressed the Judge of Heaven: "Your Honor, would it trench On custom here if Blake were given A seat upon the Bench?"

'Twas done. "Tom Shannon!" Peter cried.

He came, without ado, _In forma pauperis_ was tried, And was acquitted, too!

Stow rose, remarking: "I concur."

Lloyd added: "That suits _us_.

I move Tom's nomination, sir, Be made unanimous."