A JACK-AT-ALL-VIEWS

   So, Estee, you are still alive! I thought That you had died and were a blessed ghost I know at least your coffin once was bought With Railroad money; and 'twas said by most Historians that Stanford made a boast The seller "threw you in." That goes for naught—   Man takes delight in fancy's fine inventions, And woman too, 'tis said, if they are French ones. Do you remember, Estee—ah, 'twas long And long ago!—how fierce you grew and hot When anything impeded the straight, strong, Wild sweep of the great billow you had got Atop of, like a swimmer bold? Great Scott! How fine your wavemanship! How loud your song Of "Down with railroads!" When the wave subsided And left you stranded you were much divided. Then for a time you were content to wade The waters of the "robber barons'" moat. To fetch, and carry was your humble trade, And ferry Stanford over in a boat, Well paid if he bestowed the kindly groat And spoke you fair and called you pretty maid. And when his stomach seemed a bit unsteady You got your serviceable basin ready. Strange man! how odd to see you, smug and spruce, There at Chicago, burrowed in a Chair, Not made to measure and a deal too loose, And see you lift your little arm and swear Democracy shall be no more! If it's a fair And civil question, and not too abstruse, Were you elected as a "robber baron,"   Or as a Communist whose teeth had hair on? 

 

 MY LORD POET

   "Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat;"     Who sings for nobles, he should noble be. There's no non sequitur, I think, in that, And this is logic plain as a, b, c. Now, Hector Stuart, you're a Scottish prince, If right you fathom your descent—that fall From grace; and since you have no peers, and since You have no kind of nobleness at all,   'Twere better to sing little, lest you wince When made by heartless critics to sing small. And yet, my liege, I bid you not despair—     Ambition conquers but a realm at once:   For European bays arrange your hair—     Two continents, in time, shall crown you Dunce! 

 

 TO THE FOOL-KILLER

   Ah, welcome, welcome! Sit you down, old friend; Your pipe I'll serve, your bottle I'll attend.   'Tis many a year since you and I have known Society more pleasant than our own In our brief respites from excessive work—   I pointing 

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