It matters very little, though, my boy,
If you’re from Chile or from Illinois;
You can’t, because you serve a foreign land,
Spit with impunity on ours, expand,
Cock-turkeywise, and strut with blind conceit,
All heedless of the hearts beneath your feet,
Fling falsehoods as a sower scatters grain
And, for security, invoke disdain. 
Sir, there are laws that men of sense observe,
No matter whence they come nor whom they serve—­
The laws of courtesy; and these forbid
You to malign, as recently you did,
As servant of another State, a State
Wherein your duties all are concentrate;
Branding its Ministers as rogues—­in short,
Inviting cuffs as suitable retort.

Chileno or American, ’tis one—­
Of any land a citizen, or none—­
If like a new Thersites here you rail,
Loading with libels every western gale,
You’ll feel the cudgel on your scurvy hump
Impinging with a salutary thump. 
’Twill make you civil or ’twill make you jump!

THE NATIONAL GUARDSMAN

I’m a gorgeous golden hero
  And my trade is taking life. 
Hear the twittle-twittle-tweero
  Of my sibillating fife
And the rub-a-dub-a-dum
  Of my big bass drum! 
I’m an escort strong and bold,
  The Grand Army to protect. 
My countenance is cold
  And my attitude erect. 
I’m a Californian Guard
  And my banner flies aloft,
But the stones are O, so hard! 
  And my feet are O, so soft!

THE BARKING WEASEL

You say, John Irish, Mr. Taylor hath
  A painted beard.  Quite likely that is true,
And sure ’tis natural you spend your wrath
  On what has been least merciful to you. 
By Taylor’s chin, if I am not mistaken,
You like a rat have recently been shaken.

To wear a beard of artificial hue
  May be or this or that, I know not what;
But, faith, ’tis better to be black-and-blue
  In beard from dallying with brush and pot
Than to be so in body from the beating
That hardy rogues get when detected cheating.

You’re whacked about the mazzard rather more
  Of late than any other man in town. 
Certes your vulnerable back is sore
  And tender, too, your corrigible crown. 
In truth your whole periphery discloses
More vivid colors than a bed of posies!

You call it glory!  Put your tongue in sheath!—­
  Scars got in battle, even if on the breast,
May be a shameful record if, beneath,
  A robber heart a lawless strife attest. 
John Sullivan had wounds, and Paddy Ryan—­
Nay, as to that, even Masten has, and Bryan.

’Tis willingly conceded you’ve a knack
  At holding the attention of the town;
The worse for you when you have on your back
  What did not grow there—­prithee put it down! 
For pride kills thrift, and you lack board and lodging,
Even while the brickbats of renown you’re dodging.