Not so, not so, ’tis a joke, that cry—­
  Foolish and dull and small: 
He so bores them for votes that they mean to imply
  He’s a drill-Sargent, that is all.

* * * * *

Gods! what a sight!  Astride McClure’s broad back
Estee jogs round the Senatorial track,
The crowd all undecided, as they pass,
Whether to cheer the man or cheer the ass. 
They stop:  the man to lower his feet is seen
And the tired beast, withdrawing from between,
Mounts, as they start again, the biped’s neck,
And scarce the crowd can say which one’s on deck.

A GROWLER

Judge Shafter, you’re an aged man, I know,
  And learned too, I doubt not, in the law;
And a head white with many a winter’s snow
  (I wish, however that your heart would thaw)
  Claims reverence and honor; but the jaw
That’s always wagging with a word malign,
  Nagging and scolding every one in sight
As harshly as a jaybird in a pine,
  And with as little sense of wrong and right
As animates that irritable creature,
Is not a very venerable feature.

You damn all witnesses, all jurors too
  (And swear at the attorneys, I suppose,
But that’s commendable) “till all is blue”;
  And what it’s all about, the good Lord knows,
  Not you; but all the hotter, fiercer glows
Your wrath for that—­as dogs the louder howl
  With only moonshine to incite their rage,
And bears with more ferocious menace growl,
  Even when their food is flung into the cage. 
Reform, your Honor, and forbear to curse us. 
Lest all men, hearing you, cry:  “Ecce ursus!”

AD MOODIUM

Tut!  Moody, do not try to show
  To gentlemen and ladies
That if they have not “Faith,” they’ll go
    Headlong to Hades.

Faith is belief; and how can I
  Have that by being willing? 
This dime I cannot, though I try,
    Believe a shilling.

Perhaps you can.  If so, pray do—­
  Believe you own it, also. 
But what seems evidence to you
    I may not call so.

Heaven knows I’d like the Faith to think
  This little vessel’s contents
Are liquid gold.  I see ’tis ink
    For writing nonsense.

Minds prone to Faith, however, may
  Come now and then to sorrow: 
They put their trust in truth to-day,
    In lies to-morrow.

No doubt the happiness is great
  To think as one would wish to;
But not to swallow every bait,
    As certain fish do.

To think a snake a cord, I hope,
  Would bolden and delight me;
But some day I might think a rope
    Would chase and bite me.

“Curst Reason!  Faith forever blest!”
  You’re crying all the season. 
Well, who decides that Faith is best? 
    Why, Mr. Reason.