“The Law is Just!” the People cried; “And She the Penalty must pay!” The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide, When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!”
An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud, And clad in Silken Cap and Gown, Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd, And struck the Awful Scissors down.
“Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ere You touch a Hair of that Fair Head; For know you not that Every Hair Is numbered--as the Prophet said?
“Show me the Notes--see, here is writ A number plain across each Bond, And you may only draw for it The numbered Hair to correspond.
“So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you draw A Single Hair from that Gold Head; If it be wrong--then by the Law Your Life and Lands are forfeited!”
“Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!” The People cried with mad uproar. The Sultan turned a deadly white, And fell in Fits upon the Floor.
“O Lady, whosoe’er you be, Claim what you will in all my Land!” The Princess cried. “I am,” said he, “Not Maid, but Man--I claim your Hand.”
“’Tis yours! Right gladly will I be Your Bride--for in Creation’s Plan I never dreamed to find,” said she, “A Portia’s Logic in a Man!”
Being an epistle to Paul. From Temperance
It comes! The monster rearing high, Against the lurid western sky, Its horrid, hissing Hydrant Heads, While o’er the shuddering land it sheds A dreary pall of waste and woe And chilling streams of H_{ 2}O. Now saints defend us, one and all, And most especially Saint Paul, Thou patron saint of Honest Fighting And Common Sense and Letterwriting, Who one time, for his “stomach’s sake,” Bade Timothy the wine cup take; Stay now this Water Fiend’s advance And save thy servant Temperance, Ere Abstinence, that glum wet-nurse Of Dire Dyspepsia, Chills, and worse, Blow out the Lights of Love and Mirth, And so asphyxiate the Earth.
Wee saffron sage, Make-believe bird, fluffy, absurd, In mimic cage Through beady eyes you scrutinize A Noisy Age.
You boast no “Tree,” No painted shell your Natal Cell, Your Pedigree, Neatly displayed, reads simply, “Made In Germany.”
What do I care Tho’ to fresh seed you pay no heed-- Since on Plain Air You gayly feast? Of that at least I have to spare.
You do not pour From your wide bill a gladsome trill, Thanks be, therefore! The best of tune, repeated, soon Becomes a bore!