Black Beetles in Amber Part 32

A FISH COMMISSIONER

Great Joseph D. Redding--ill.u.s.trious name!-- Considered a fish-horn the trumpet of Fame.

That G.o.ddess was angry, and what do you think?

Her trumpet she filled with a gallon of ink, And all through the Press, with a devilish glee, She sputtered and spattered the name of J.D.

TO A STRAY DOG

Well, Towser (I'm thinking your name must be Towser), You're a decentish puppy as puppy dogs go, For you never, I'm sure, could have dined upon trowser, And your tail's unimpeachably curled just so.

But, dear me! your name--if 'tis yours--is a "poser": Its meaning I cannot get anywise at, When spoken correctly perhaps it is Toser, And means one who toses. Max Muller, how's that?

I ne'er was ingenious at all at divining A word's prehistorical, primitive state, Or finding its root, like a mole, by consigning Its bloom to the turnep-top's sorrowful fate.

And, now that I think of it well, I'm no nearer The riddle's solution than ever--for how's My pretty invented word, "tose," any clearer In point of its signification than "towse"?

So, Towser (or Toser), I mean to rename you In honor of some good and eminent man, In the light and the heat of whose quickening fame you May grow to an eminent dog if you can.

In suns.h.i.+ne like his you'll not long be a croucher: The Senate shall hear you--for that I will vouch.

Come here, sir. Stand up. I rechristen you Goucher.

But d.a.m.n you! I'll shoot you if ever you gouch!

IN HIS HAND

De Young (in Chicago the story is told) "Took his life in his hand," like a warrior bold, And stood before Buckley--who thought him behind, For Buckley, the man-eating monster is blind.

"Count fairly the ballots!" so rang the demand Of the gallant De Young, with his life in his hand.

'Tis done, and the struggle is ended. No more He havocs the battle-field, gilt with the gore Of slain reputations. No more he defies His "lying opponents" with deadlier lies.

His trumpet is hushed and his belt is unbound-- His enemies' characters c.u.mber the ground.

They bloat on the war-plain with ink all asoak, The fortunate candidates perching to croak.

No more he will charge, with a daring divine, His foes with corruption, his friends by the line.

The thunders are stilled of the horrid campaign, De Young is triumphant, and never again Will he need, with his life in his hand, to roar: "Count fair or, by G----, I will die on your floor!"

His life has been spared, for his sins to atone, And the hand that he took it in washed with cologne.

A DEMAGOGUE

"Yawp, yawp, yawp!

Under the moon and sun.

It's aye the rabble, And I to gabble, And hey! for the tale that is never done.

"Chant, chant, chant!

To woo the reluctant vote.

I would I were dead And my say were said And my song were sung to its ultimate note.

"Stab, stab, stab!

Ah! the weapon between my teeth-- I'm sick of the flash of it; See how the slash of it Misses the foeman to mangle the sheath!

"Boom, boom, boom!

I'm beating the mammoth drum.

My nethermost tripes I blow into the pipes-- It's oh! for the honors that never come!"

'Twas the dolorous blab Of a tramping "scab"-- 'Twas the eloquent Swift Of the marvelous gift-- The wild, weird, wonderful gift of gab!

IGNIS FATUUS

Weep, weep, each loyal partisan, For Buckley, king of hearts; A most accomplished man; a man Of parts--of foreign parts.

Long years he ruled with gentle sway, Nor grew his glory dim; And he would be with us to-day If we were but with him.

Men wondered at his going off In such a sudden way; 'Twas thought, as he had come to scoff He would remain to prey.

Since he is gone we're all agreed That he is what men call A crook: his very steps, indeed, Are bent--to Montreal.

So let our tears unhindered flow, Our sighs and groans have way: It matters not how much we Oh!-- The devil is to pay.

FROM TOP TO BOTTOM

[j.a.pan has 73,759 Buddhist priests, "most of whom," says a Christian missionary, "are grossly ignorant, and many of them lead scandalous lives."]

O Buddha, had you but foreknown The vices of your priesthood It would have made you twist and moan As any wounded beast would.

You would have d.a.m.ned the entire lot And turned a Christian, would you not?

There were no Christians, I'll allow, In your day; that would only Have brought distinction. Even now A Christian might feel lonely.

All take the name, but facts are things As stubborn as the will of kings.

The priests were ignorant and low When ridiculed by Lucian; The records, could we read, might show The same of times Confucian.

And yet the fact I can't disguise That Deacon Rankin's good and wise.