“DIED OF A ROSE”

A reporter he was, and he wrote, wrote he: 
  “The grave was covered as thick as could be
  With floral tributes”—­which reading,
The editor man he said, he did so: 
  “For ‘floral tributes’ he’s got for to go,
  For I hold the same misleading.” 
Then he called him in and he pointed sweet
To a blooming garden across the street,
  Inquiring:  “What’s them a-growing?”
The reporter chap said:  “Why, where’s your eyes? 
Them’s floral tributes!” “Arise, arise,”
  The editor said, “and be going.”

A LITERARY HANGMAN

Beneath his coat of dirt great Neilson loves
  To hide the avenging rope. 
He handles all he touches without gloves,
  Excepting soap.

AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR

As through the blue expanse he skims
  On joyous wings, the late
Frank Hutchings overtakes Miss Sims,
  Both bound for Heaven’s high gate.

In life they loved and (God knows why
  A lover so should sue)
He slew her, on the gallows high
  Died pious—­and they flew.

Her pinions were bedraggled, soiled
  And torn as by a gale,
While his were bright—­all freshly oiled
  The feathers of his tail.

Her visage, too, was stained and worn
  And menacing and grim;
His sweet and mild—­you would have sworn
  That she had murdered him.

When they’d arrived before the gate
  He said to her:  “My dear,
’Tis hard once more to separate,
  But you can’t enter here.

“For you, unluckily, were sent
  So quickly to the grave
You had no notice to repent,
  Nor time your soul to save.”

“’Tis true,” said she, “and I should wail
  In Hell even now, but I
Have lingered round the county jail
  To see a Christian die.”

A CONTROVERSIALIST

I’ve sometimes wished that Ingersoll were wise
To hold his tongue, nor rail against the skies;
  For when he’s made a point some pious dunce
Like Bartlett of the Bulletin “replies.”

I brandish no iconoclastic fist,
Nor enter the debate an atheist;
  But when they say there is a God I ask
Why Bartlett, then, is suffered to exist.

Even infidels that logic might resent,
Saying:  “There’s no place for his punishment
  That’s worse than earth.”  But humbly I submit
That he would make a hell wherever sent.

MENDAX

High Lord of Liars, Pickering, to thee
Let meaner mortals bend the subject knee! 
Thine is mendacity’s imperial crown,
Alike by genius, action and renown. 
No man, since words could set a cheek aflame
E’er lied so greatly with so little shame! 
O bad old man, must thy remaining years
Be passed in leading idiots by their ears—­
Thine own (which Justice, if she ruled the roast
Would fasten to the penitential post)
Still wagging sympathetically—­hung
the same rocking-bar that bears thy tongue?