tongue." 

 

 FOR PRESIDENT, LELAND STANFORD

   Mahomet Stanford, with covetous stare, Gazed on a vision surpassingly fair:   Far on the desert's remote extreme A mountain of gold with a mellow gleam Reared its high pinnacles into the sky, The work of mirage to delude the eye. Pixley Pasha, at the Prophet's feet Piously licking them, swearing them sweet, Ventured, observing his master's glance, To beg that he order the mountain's advance. Mahomet Stanford exerted his will, Commanding: "In Allah's name, hither, hill!"   Never an inch the mountain came. Mahomet Stanford, with face aflame, Lifted his foot and kicked, alack! Pixley Pasha on the end of the back. Mollified thus and smiling free, He said: "Since the mountain won't come to me, I'll go to the mountain." With infinite pains, Camels in caravans, negroes in trains, Warriors, workmen, women, and fools, Food and water and mining tools He gathered about him, a mighty array, And the journey began at the close of day. All night they traveled—at early dawn Many a wearisome league had gone. Morning broke fair with a golden sheen, Mountain, alas, was nowhere seen! Mahomet Stanford pounded his breast, Pixley Pasha he thus addressed:   "Dog of mendacity, cheat and slave, May jackasses sing o'er your grandfather's grave!" 

 

 FOR MAYOR

   O Abner Doble—whose "catarrhal name"     Budd of that ilk might envy—'tis a rough Rude thing to say, but it is plain enough Your name is to be sneezed at: its acclaim Will "fill the speaking trump of future fame"     With an impeded utterance—a puff Suggesting that a pinch or two of snuff Would clear the tube and somewhat disinflame. Nay, Abner Doble, you'll not get from me My voice and influence: I'll cheer instead, Some other man; for when my voice ascends a Tall pinnacle of praise, and at high C Sustains a chosen name, it shan't be said My influence is naught but influenza. 

 

 A CHEATING PREACHER

   Munhall, to save my soul you bravely try, Although, to save my soul, I can't say why.   'Tis naught to you, to me however much—   Why, bless it! you might save a million such Yet lose your own; for still the "means of grace"   That you employ to turn us from the place By the arch-enemy of souls frequented Are those which to ensnare us he invented!   

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