Of Hans Pietro Shanahan(Who was a most ingenious man)The Muse of History recordsThat he'd get drunk as twenty lords.He'd get so truly drunk that menStood by to marvel at him whenHis slow advance along the streetWas but a vain cycloidal feat.And when 'twas fated that he fallWith a wide geographical sprawl,They signified assent by soundsHeard (faintly) at its utmost bounds.And yet this Mr. Shanahan(Who was a most ingenious man)Cast not on wine his thirsty eyesWhen it was red or otherwise.All malt, or spirituous, topeHe loathed as cats dissent from soap;And cider, if it touched his lip,Evoked a groan at every sip.But still, as heretofore explained,He not infrequently was grained.(I'm not of those who call it "corned."Coarse speech I've always duly scorned.)Though truth to say, and that's but right,Strong drink (it hath an adder's bite!)Was what had put him in the mud,The only kind he used was blood!Alas, that an immortal soulAddicted to the flowing bowl,The emptied flagon should againReplenish from a neighbor's vein.But, Mr. Shanahan was soConstructed, and his taste that low.Nor more deplorable was heIn kind of thirst than in degree;For sometimes fifty souls would payThe debt of nature in a dayTo free him from the shame and painOf dread Sobriety's misreign.His native land, proud of its senseOf his unique inabstinence,Abated something of its prideAt thought of his unfilled inside.And some the boldness had to say'Twere well if he were called awayTo slake his thirst forevermoreIn oceans of celestial gore.But Hans Pietro Shanahan(Who was a most ingenious man)Knew that his thirst was mortal; soRemained unsainted here below—Unsainted and unsaintly, forHe neither went to glory norTo abdicate his power deignedWhere, under Providence, he reigned,But kept his Boss's power accurstTo serve his wild uncommon thirst.Which now had grown so truly greatIt was a drain upon the State.Soon, soon there came a time, alas!When he turned down an empty glass—All practicable means were vainHis special wassail to obtain.In vain poor Decimation triedTo furnish forth the needful tide;And Civil War as vainly shedHer niggard offering of red.Poor Shanahan! his thirst increasedUntil he wished himself deceased,Invoked the firearm and the knife,But could not die to save his life!He was so dry his own veins madeNo answer to the seeking blade;So parched that when he would have passedAway he could not breathe his last.'Twas then, when almost in despair,(Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair)He saw as in a dream a wayTo wet afresh his mortal clay.Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan(Who was a most ingenious man)Saw freedom, and with joy and pride"Thalassa! (or Thalatta!)" cried.Straight to the Aldermen went he,With many a "pull" and many a fee,And many a most corrupt "combine"(The Press for twenty cents a lineHeld out and fought him—O, God, blessForevermore the holy Press!)Till he had franchises completeFor trolley lines on every street!The cars were builded and, they say,Were run on rails laid every way—Rhomboidal roads, and circular,And oval—everywhere a car—Square, dodecagonal (in greatEsteem the shape called Figure 8)And many other kinds of shapesAs various as tails of apes.No other group of men's abodesE'er had such odd electric roads,That winding in and winding out,Began and ended all about.No city had, unless in Mars,That city's wealth of trolley cars.They ran by day, they flew by night,And O, the sorry, sorry sight!And Hans Pietro Shanahan(Who was a most ingenious man)Incessantly, the Muse records,Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords!
Theosophists are about to build a "Temple for the revival of theMysteries of Antiquity."—Vide the Newspapers, passim.
Each to his taste: some men prefer to playAt mystery, as others at piquet.Some sit in mystic meditation; someParade the street with tambourine and drum.One studies to decipher ancient loreWhich, proving stuff, he studies all the more;Another swears that learning is but goodTo darken things already understood,Then writes upon Simplicity so wellThat none agree on what he wants to tell,And future ages will declare his penInspired by gods with messages to men.To found an ancient order those devoteTheir time—with ritual, regalia, goat,Blankets for tossing, chairs of little easeAnd all the modern inconveniences;These, saner, frown upon unmeaning ritesAnd go to church for rational delights.So all are suited, shallow and profound,The prophets prosper and the world goes round.For me—unread in the occult, I'm fainTo damn all mysteries alike as vain,Spurn the obscure and base my faith uponThe Revelations of the good St. John.1897.
We heard a song-bird trilling—'T was but a night ago.Such rapture he was rillingAs only we could know.This morning he is flingingHis music from the tree,But something in the singingIs not the same to me.His inspiration fails him,Or he has lost his skill.Nanine, Nanine, what ails himThat he should sing so ill?Nanine is not replying—She hears no earthly song.The sun and bird are lyingAnd the night is, O, so long!
'Twas a serious person with locks of grayAnd a figure like a crescent;His gravity, clearly, had come to stay,But his smile was evanescent.He stood and conversed with a neighbor, andWith (likewise) a high falsetto;And he stabbed his forefinger into his handAs if it had been a stiletto.His words, like the notes of a tenor drum,Came out of his head unblended,And the wonderful altitude of someWas exceptionally splendid.While executing a shake of the head,With the hand, as it were, of a master,This agonizing old gentleman said:"'Twas a truly sad disaster!"Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all,Went down"—he paused and snuffled.A single tear was observed to fall,And the old man's drum was muffled."A very calamitous year," he said.And again his head-piece hoaryHe shook, and another pearl he shed,As if he weptcon amore."O lacrymose person," I cried, "pray whyShould these failures so affect you?With speculators in stocks no eyeThat's normal would ever connect you."He focused his orbs upon mine and smiledIn a sinister sort of manner."Young man," he said, "your words are wild:I spoke of the steamship 'Hanner.'"For she has went down in a howlin' squall,And my heart is nigh to breakin'—Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in allWill never need undertakin'!"I'm in the business myself," said he,"And you've mistook my expression;For I uses the technical terms, you see,Employed in my perfession."That old undertaker has joined the throngOn the other side of the River,But I'm still unhappy to think I'm a "long,"And a tape-line makes me shiver.
O nonsense, parson—tell me not they thriveAnd jubilate who follow your dictation.The good are the unhappiest lot alive—I know they are from careful observation.If freedom from the terrors of damnationLengthens the visage like a telescope,And lacrymation is a sign of hope,Then I'll continue, in my dreadful plight,To tread the dusky paths of sin, and gropeContentedly without your lantern's light;And though in many a bog beslubbered quite,Refuse to flay me with ecclesiastic soap.You say 'tis a sad world, seeing I'm condemned,With many a million others of my kidney.Each continent's Hammed, Japheted and ShemmedWith sinners—worldlings like Sir Philip SidneyAnd scoffers like Voltaire, who thought it blissTo simulate respect for Genesis—Who bent the mental knee as if in prayer,But mocked at Moses underneath his hair,And like an angry gander bowed his head to hiss.Seeing such as these, who die without contrition,Must go to—beg your pardon, sir—perdition,The sons of light, you tell me, can't be gay,But count it sin of the sort called omissionThe groan to smother or the tear to stayOr fail to—what is that they live by?—pray.So down they flop, and the whole serious race isPut by divine compassion on a praying basis.Well, if you take it so to heart, while yetOur own hearts are so light with nature's leaven,You'll weep indeed when we in Hades sweat,And you look down upon us out of Heaven.In fancy, lo! I see your wailing shadesThronging the crystal battlements. CascadesOf tears spring singing from each golden spout,Run roaring from the verge with hoarser sound,Dash downward through the glimmering profound,Quench the tormenting flame and put the Devil out!Presumptuous ass! to you no power belongsTo pitchfork me to Heaven upon the prongsOf a bad pen, whose disobedient sputter,With less of ink than incoherence fraughtBefits the folly that it tries to utter.Brains, I observe, as well as tongues, can stutter:You suffer from impediment of thought.When next you "point the way to Heaven," take care:Your fingers all being thumbs, point, Heaven knows where!Farewell, poor dunce! your letter though I blame,Bears witness how my anger I can tame:I've called you everything except your hateful name!
Because from Folly's lips you gotSome babbled mandate to subdueThe realm of Common Sense, and youMade promise and considered not—Because you strike a random blowAt what you do not understand,And beckon with a friendly handTo something that you do not know,I hold no speech of your desert,Nor answer with porrected shieldThe wooden weapon that you wield,But meet you with a cast of dirt.Dispute with such a thing as you—Twin show to the two-headed calf?Why, sir, if I repress my laugh,'T is more than half the world can do.1882.
Fear not in any tongue to callUpon the Lord—He's skilled in all.But if He answereth my pleaHe speaketh one unknown to me.
Tuckerton Tamerlane Morey MahoshIs a statesman of world-wide fame,With a notable knack at rhetorical boshTo glorify somebody's name—Somebody chosen by Tuckerton's mastersTo succor the country from divers disastersPortentous to Mr. Mahosh.Percy O'Halloran Tarpy CabeeIs in the political swim.He cares not a button for men, not he:Great principles captivate him—Principles cleverly cut out and fittedTo Percy's capacity, duly submitted,And fought for by Mr. Cabee.Drusus Turn Swinnerton Porfer FitzurseHolds 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, buthedoesn't pump any,Messrs. Mahosh, Cabee & CompanyPump for good Mr. Fitzurse.
O Liberty, God-gifted—Young and immortal maid—In your high hand uplifted;The torch declares your trade.Its crimson menace, flamingUpon the sea and shore,Is, trumpet-like, proclaimingThat Law shall be no more.Austere incendiary,We're blinking in the light;Where is your customaryGrenade of dynamite?Where are your staves and switchesFor men of gentle birth?Your mask and dirk for riches?Your chains for wit and worth?Perhaps, you've brought the haltersYou used in the old days,When round religion's altarsYou stabled Cromwell's bays?Behind you, unsuspected,Have you the axe, fair wench,Wherewith you once collectedA poll-tax from the French?America salutes you—Preparing to disgorge.Take everything that suits you,And marry Henry George.1894
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 wellWhat Herbert Spencer, if he didn't tell(I know not if he did) yet might have toldOf present-giving in the days of old,When Early Man with gifts propitiatedThe chiefs whom most he doubted, feared and hated,Or tendered them in hope to reap some rudeAdvantage from the taker's gratitude.Since thus the Gift its origin derives(How much of its first character survivesYou 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 bodyDone to a nutty brown, and a tear toddyTo 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 fineFretting 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 bombardedWith sentiments and sounds that good old PanEven in his demonium would ban?No, friends—no Christmas here, for I have swornTo 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 lullWith 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 celebrateMy yearly rite until the crack o' doom,Ignore the cheerful season's warmth and bloomAnd cultivate an oasis of gloom.
Liars for witnesses; for lawyers brutesWho lose their tempers to retrieve their suits;Cowards for jurors; and for judge a clownWho 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.
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 fistPrudently 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 lackOf skill, when he had counted, to count back!Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steepTo wake the lyre and put the world to sleep!To his rapt lip his soul no longer springsAnd 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 drawsThe 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!"
"Let Glory's sons manipulateThe tiller of the Ship of State.Be mine the humble, useful toilTo work the tiller of the soil."
For a Proposed Monument in Washington to Him whoMade it Beautiful.
Erected to "Boss" Shepherd by the dearGood folk he lived and moved among in peace—Guarded on either hand by the police,With soldiers in his front and in his rear.
The polecat, sovereign of its native wood,Dashes damnation upon bad and good;The health of all the upas trees impairsBy exhalations deadlier than theirs;Poisons the rattlesnake and warts the toad—The creeks go rotten and the rocks corrode!She shakes o'er breathless hill and shrinking daleThe horrid aspergillus of her tail!From every saturated hair, till dry,The spargent fragrances divergent fly,Deafen the earth and scream along the sky!Removed to alien scenes, amid the strifeOf urban odors to ungladden life—Where gas and sewers and dead dogs conspireThe flesh to torture and the soul to fire—Where all the "well defined and several stinks"Known to mankind hold revel and high jinks—Humbled in spirit, smitten with a senseOf lost distinction, leveled eminence,She suddenly resigns her baleful trust,Nor ever lays again our mortal dust.Her powers atrophied, her vigor sunk,She lives deodorized, a sweeter skunk.
"O, I'm the Unaverage Man,But you never have heard of me,For my brother, the Average Man, outranMy fame with rapiditee,And I'm sunk in Oblivion's sea,But my bully big brother the world can spanWith his wide notorietee.I do everything that I canTo make 'em attend to me,But the papers ignore the Unaverage ManWith a weird uniformitee."So sang with a dolorous noteA voice that I heard from the beach;On the sable waters it seemed to floatLike a mortal part of speech.The sea was Oblivion's sea,And I cried as I plunged to swim:"The Unaverage Man shall reside with me."But he didn't—I stayed with him!
Oft from a trading-boat I purchased spiceAnd shells and corals, brought for my inspectionFrom the fair tropics—paid a Christian priceAnd was content in my fool's paradise,Where never had been heard the word "Protection."'T was my sole island; there I dwelt alone—No customs-house, collector nor collection,But a man came, who, in a pious toneCondoled with me that I had never knownThe manifest advantage of Protection.So, when the trading-boat arrived one day,He threw a stink-pot into its mid-section.The traders paddled for their lives away,Nor came again into that haunted bay,The blessed home thereafter of Protection.Then down he sat, that philanthropic man,And spat upon some mud of his selection,And worked it, with his knuckles in a pan,To shapes of shells and coral things, and spanA thread of song in glory of Protection.He baked them in the sun. His air devoutEnchanted me. I made a genuflexion:"God help you, gentle sir," I said. "No doubt,"He answered gravely, "I'll get on withoutAssistance now that we have got Protection."Thenceforth I bought his wares—at what a priceFor shells and corals of such imperfection!"Ah, now," said he, "your lot is truly nice."But still in all that isle there was no spiceTo season to my taste that dish, Protection.
I died. As meekly in the earth I lay,With shriveled fingers reverently folded,The worm—uncivil engineer!—my clayTunneled industriously, and the mole did.My body could not dodge them, but my soul did;For that had flown from this terrestrial ballAnd I was rid of it for good and all.So there I lay, debating what to do—What measures might most usefully be takenTo circumvent the subterranean crewOf anthropophagi and save my bacon.My fortitude was all this while unshaken,But any gentleman, of course, protestsAgainst receiving uninvited guests.However proud he might be of his meats,Not even Apicius, nor, I think, Lucullus,Wasted on tramps his culinary sweets;"Aut Caesar," say judicious hosts, "aut nullus."And though when Marcius came unbidden TullusAufidius feasted him because he starved,Marcius by Tullus afterward was carved.We feed the hungry, as the book commands(For men might question else our orthodoxy)But do not care to see the outstretched hands,And so we minister to them by proxy.When Want, in his improper person, knocks heFinds we're engaged. The graveworm's very freshTo think we like his presence in the flesh.So, as I said, I lay in doubt; in allThat underworld no judges could determineMy rights. When Death approaches them they fall,And falling, naturally soil their ermine.And still below ground, as above, the verminThat work by dark and silent methods winThe case—the burial case that one is in.Cases at law so slowly get ahead,Even when the right is visibly unclouded,That if all men are classed as quick and dead,The judges all are dead, though some unshrouded.Pray Jove that when they're actually crowdedOn Styx's brink, and Charon rows in sight,His bark prove worse than Cerberus's bite.Ah! Cerberus, if you had but begotA race of three-mouthed dogs for man to nourishAnd woman to caress, the muse had notLamented the decay of virtues currish,And triple-hydrophobia now would flourish,For barking, biting, kissing to employCanine repeaters were indeed a joy.Lord! how we cling to this vile world! Here I,Whose dust was laid ere I began this carping,By moles and worms and such familiar fryRun through and through, am singing still and harpingOf mundane matters—flatting, too, and sharping.I hate the Angel of the Sleeping Cup:So I'm for getting—and for shutting—up.
Beauty (they called her) wasn't a maidOf many things in the world afraid.She wasn't a maid who turned and fledAt sight of a mouse, alive or dead.She wasn't a maid a man could "shoo"By shouting, however abruptly, "Boo!"She wasn't a maid who'd run and hideIf her face and figure you idly eyed.She was'nt a maid who'd blush and shakeWhen asked what part of the fowl she'd take.(I blush myself to confess she preferred,And commonly got, the most of the bird.)She wasn't a maid to simper becauseShe was asked to sing—if she ever was.In short, if the truth must be displayedIn puris—Beauty wasn't a maid.Beauty, furry and fine and fat,Yawny and clawy, sleek and all that,Was a pampered and spoiled Angora cat!I loved her well, and I'm proud that sheWasn't indifferent, quite, to me;In fact I have sometimes gone so far(You know, mesdames, how silly men are)As to think she preferred—excuse the conceit—Mylegs upon which to sharpen her feet.Perhaps it shouldn't have gone for much,But I started and thrilled beneath her touch!Ah, well, that's ancient history now:The fingers of Time have touched my brow,And I hear with never a start to-dayThat Beauty has passed from the earth away.Gone!—her death-song (it killed her) sung.Gone!—her fiddlestrings all unstrung.Gone to the bliss of a newrégimeOf turkey smothered in seas of cream;Of roasted mice (a superior breed,To science unknown and the coarser needOf the living cat) cooked by the flameOf the dainty soul of an erring dameWho gave to purity all her care,Neglecting the duty of daily prayer,—Crisp, delicate mice, just touched with spiceBy the ghost of a breeze from Paradise;A very digestible sort of mice.Let scoffers sneer, I propose to holdThat Beauty has mounted the Stair of Gold,To eat and eat, forever and aye,On a velvet rug from a golden tray.But the human spirit—that is my creed—Rots in the ground like a barren seed.That is my creed, abhorred by ManBut approved by Cat since time began.Till Death shall kick at me, thundering "Scat!"I shall hold to that, I shall hold to that.
How blest the land that counts amongHer sons so many good and wise,To execute great feats of tongueWhen troubles rise.Behold them mounting every stumpOur liberty by speech to guard.Observe their courage:—see them jumpAnd come down hard!"Walk up, walk up!" each cries aloud,"And learn from me what you must doTo turn aside the thunder cloud,The earthquake too."Beware the wiles of yonder quackWho stuffs the ears of all that pass.I—I alone can show that blackIs white as grass."They shout through all the day and breakThe silence of the night as well.They'd make—I wish they'dgoand make—Of Heaven a Hell.A advocates free silver, BFree trade and C free banking laws.Free board, clothes, lodging would from meWin warm applause.Lo, D lifts up his voice: "You seeThe single tax on land would fallOn all alike." More evenlyNo tax at all."With paper money" bellows E"We'll all be rich as lords." No doubt—And richest of the lot will beThe chap without.As many "cures" as addle witsWho know not what the ailment is!Meanwhile the patient foams and spitsLike a gin fizz.Alas, poor Body Politic,Your fate is all too clearly read:To be not altogether quick,Nor very dead.You take your exercise in squirms,Your rest in fainting fits between.'T is plain that your disorder's worms—Worms fat and lean.Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwellWithin your maw and muscle's scope.Their quarrels make your life a Hell,Your death a hope.God send you find not such an endTo ills however sharp and huge!God send you convalesce! God sendYou vermifuge.
Scene—A lawyer's dreadful den.Enter stall-fed citizen.
LAWYER.—'Mornin'. How-de-do?
CITIZEN.—Sir, same to you.Called as counsel to retain youIn a case that I'll explain you.Sad,sosad! Heart almost broke.Hang it! where's my kerchief? Smoke?Brother, sir, and I, of late,Came into a large estate.Brother's—h'm, ha,—rather queerSometimes(tapping forehead)here.What he needs—you know—a "writ"—Something, eh? that will permitMe to manage, sir, in fine,His estate, as well as mine.'Course he'llkick; 't will break, I fear,His loving heart—excuse this tear.
LAWYER.—Have you nothing more?All of this you said before—When last night I took your case.
CITIZEN.—Why, sir, your faceNe'er before has met my view!
LAWYER.—Eh? The devil! True:My mistake—it was your brother.But you're very like each other.
In that fair city, Ispahan,There dwelt a problematic man,Whose angel never was released,Who never once let out his beast,But kept, through all the seasons' round,Silence unbroken and profound.No Prophecy, with ear appliedTo key-hole of the future, triedSuccessfully to catch a hintOf what he'd do nor when begin 't;As sternly did his past defyMild Retrospection's backward eye.Though all admired his silent ways,The women loudest were in praise:For ladies love those men the mostWho never, never, never boast—Who ne'er disclose their aims and endsTo naughty, naughty, naughty friends.Yet, sooth to say, the fame outranThe merit of this doubtful man,For taciturnity in him,Though not a mere caprice or whim,Was not a virtue, such as truth,High birth, or beauty, wealth or youth.'Twas known, indeed, throughout the spanOf Ispahan, of Gulistan—These utmost limits of the earthKnew that the man was dumb from birth.Unto the Sun with deep salaamsThe Parsee spreads his morning palms(A beacon blazing on a heightWarms o'er his piety by night.)The Moslem deprecates the deed,Cuts off the head that holds the creed,Then reverently goes to grass,Muttering thanks to Balaam's AssFor faith and learning to refuteIdolatry so dissolute!But should a maniac dash past,With straws in beard and hands upcast,To him (through whom, whene'er inclinedTo preach a bit to Madmankind,The Holy Prophet speaks his mind)Our True Believer lifts his eyesDevoutly and his prayer applies;But next to Solyman the GreatReveres the idiot's sacred state.Small wonder then, our worthy muteWas held in popular repute.Had he been blind as well as mum,Been lame as well as blind and dumb,No bard that ever sang or soaredCould say how he had been adored.More meagerly endowed, he drewAn homage less prodigious. True,No soul his praises but did utter—All plied him with devotion's butter,But none had out—'t was to their credit—The proselyting sword to spread it.I state these truths, exactly whyThe reader knows as well as I;They've nothing in the world to doWith what I hope we're coming toIf Pegasus be good enoughTo move when he has stood enough.Egad! his ribs I would examineHad I a sharper spur than famine,Or even with that if 'twould inclineTo examine his instead of mine.Where was I? Ah, that silent manWho dwelt one time in Ispahan—He had a name—was known to allAs Meerza Solyman Zingall.There lived afar in Astrabad,A man the world agreed was mad,So wickedly he broke his jokeUpon the heads of duller folk,So miserly, from day to day,He gathered up and hid awayIn vaults obscure and cellars hauntedWhat many worthy people wanted,A stingy man!—the tradesmen's palmsWere spread in vain: "I give no almsWithout inquiry"—so he'd say,And beat the needy duns away.The bastinado did, 'tis true,Persuade him, now and then, a fewOdd tens of thousands to disburseTo glut the taxman's hungry purse,But still, so rich he grew, his fearWas constant that the Shah might hear.(The Shah had heard it long ago,And asked the taxman if 'twere so,Who promptly answered, rather airish,The man had long been on the parish.)The more he feared, the more he grewA cynic and a miser, too,Until his bitterness and pelfMade him a terror to himself;Then, with a razor's neckwise stroke,He tartly cut his final joke.So perished, not an hour too soon,The wicked Muley Ben Maroon.From Astrabad to IspahanAt camel speed the rumor ranThat, breaking through tradition hoar,And throwing all his kinsmen o'er,The miser'd left his mighty storeOf gold—his palaces and lands—To needy and deserving hands(Except a penny here and thereTo pay the dervishes for prayer.)'Twas known indeed throughout the spanOf earth, and into Hindostan,That our beloved mute was theResiduary legatee.The people said 'twas very well,And each man had a tale to tellOf how he'd had a finger in 'tBy dropping many a friendly hintAt Astrabad, you see. But ah,They feared the news might reach the Shah!To prove the will the lawyers bore 'tBefore the Kadi's awful court,Who nodded, when he heard it read,Confirmingly his drowsy head,Nor thought, his sleepiness so great,Himself to gobble the estate."I give," the dead had writ, "my allTo Meerza Solyman ZingallOf Ispahan. With this estateI might quite easily createTen thousand ingrates, but I shunTemptation and create but one,In whom the whole unthankful crewThe rich man's air that ever drewTo fat their pauper lungs I fireVicarious with vain desire!From foul Ingratitude's base routI pick this hapless devil out,Bestowing on him all my lands,My treasures, camels, slaves and bandsOf wives—I give him all this loot,And throw my blessing in to boot.Behold, O man, in this bequestPhilanthropy's long wrongs redressed:To speak me ill that man I dowerWith fiercest will who lacks the power.Allah il Allah! now let him bloatWith rancor till his heart's afloat,Unable to discharge the waveUpon his benefactor's grave!"Forth in their wrath the people cameAnd swore it was a sin and shameTo trick their blessed mute; and eachProtested, serious of speech,That thoughhe'dlong foreseen the worstHe'd been against it from the first.By various means they vainly triedThe testament to set aside,Each ready with his empty purseTo take upon himself the curse;Fortheyhad powers of invectiveEnough to make it ineffective.The ingrates mustered, every man,And marched in force to Ispahan(Which had not quite accommodation)And held a camp of indignation.The man, this while, who never spoke—On whom had fallen this thunder-strokeOf fortune, gave no feeling ventNor dropped a clue to his intent.Whereas no power to him cameHis benefactor to defame,Some (such a length had slander gone to)Even whispered that he didn't want to!But none his secret could divine;If suffering he made no sign,Until one night as winter nearedFrom all his haunts he disappeared—Evanished in a doubtful blankLike little crayfish in a bank,Their heads retracting for a spell,And pulling in their holes as well.All through the land of Gul, the stoutYoung Spring is kicking Winter out.The grass sneaks in upon the scene,Defacing it with bottle-green.The stumbling lamb arrives to plyHis restless tail in every eye,Eats nasty mint to spoil his meatAnd make himself unfit to eat.Madly his throat the bulbul tears—In every grove blasphemes and swearsAs the immodest rose displaysHer shameless charms a dozen ways.Lo! now, throughout the utmost spanOf Ispahan—of Gulistan—A big new book's displayed in allThe shops and cumbers every stall.The price is low—the dealers say 'tis—And the rich are treated to it gratis.Engraven on its foremost pageThese title-words the eye engage:"The Life of Muley Ben Maroon,Of Astrabad—Rogue, Thief, BuffoonAnd Miser—Liver by the SweatOf Better Men: A LamponetteComposed in Rhyme and Written allBy Meerza Solyman Zingall!"
'T was a maiden lady (the newspapers say)Pious and prim and a bit gone-gray.She slept like an angel, holy and white,Till ten o' the clock in the shank o' the night(When men and other wild animals prey)And then she cried in the viewless gloom:"There's a man in the room, a man in the room!"And this maiden lady (they make it appear)Leapt out of the window, five fathom sheer!Alas, that lying is such a sinWhen newspaper men need bread and ginAnd none can be had for less than a lie!For the maiden lady a bit gone-graySaw the man in the room from across the way,And leapt, not out of the window but in—Tenfathom sheer, as I hope to die!