The Law had long regarded you
  As an extreme offender. 
Religion looked upon you, too,
    With thoughts untender.

The Press to you was cold as snow,
  For sin you’d always call so. 
In Politics you were de trop,
    In Morals also.

All this is accurately true
  And, faith! there might be more said;
But—­well, to save your thrapple you
    Fled, as aforesaid.

You’re down in Mexico—­that’s plain
  As that the sun is risen;
For Daniel Burns, down there, his chain
  Drags round in prison.

ONE JUDGE

Wallace, created on a noble plan
To show us that a Judge can be a Man;
Through moral mire exhaling mortal stench
God-guided sweet and foot-clean to the Bench;
In salutation here and sign I lift
A hand as free as yours from lawless thrift,
A heart—­ah, would I truly could proclaim
My bosom lighted with so pure a flame! 
Alas, not love of justice moves my pen
To praise, or to condemn, my fellow men. 
Good will and ill its busy point incite: 
I do but gratify them when I write. 
In palliation, though, I’d humbly state,
I love the righteous and the wicked hate. 
So, sir, although we differ we agree,
Our work alike from persecution free,
And Heaven, approving you, consents to me. 
Take, therefore, from this not all useless hand
The crown of honor—­not in all the land
One honest man dissenting from the choice,
Nor in approval one Fred. Crocker’s voice!

TO AN INSOLENT ATTORNEY

So, Hall McAllister, you’ll not be warned—­
My protest slighted, admonition scorned! 
To save your scoundrel client from a cell
As loth to swallow him as he to swell
Its sum of meals insurgent (it decries
All wars intestinal with meats that rise)
You turn your scurril tongue against the press
And damn the agency you ought to bless. 
Had not the press with all its hundred eyes
Discerned the wolf beneath the sheep’s disguise
And raised the cry upon him, he to-day
Would lack your company, and you would lack his pay.

Talk not of “hire” and consciences for sale—­
You whose profession ’tis to threaten, rail,
Calumniate and libel at the will
Of any villain who can pay the bill—­
You whose most honest dollars all were got
By saying for a fee “the thing that’s not!”
To you ’tis one, to challenge or defend;
Clients are means, their money is an end. 
In my profession sometimes, as in yours
Always, a payment large enough secures
A mercenary service to defend
The guilty or the innocent to rend. 
But mark the difference, nor think it slight: 
We do not hold it proper, just and right;
Of selfish lies a little still we shame
And give our villainies another name. 
Hypocrisy’s an ugly vice, no doubt,
But blushing sinners can’t get on without. 
Happy the lawyer!—­at his favored hands
Nor truth nor decency the world demands. 
Secure in his immunity from shame,
His cheek ne’er kindles with the tell-tale flame. 
His brains for sale, morality for hire,
In every land and century a licensed liar!