IV

SATIRE

A BALLADE OF SUICIDE

THE gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall.
I tie the noose on in a knowing way

As one that knots his necktie for a ball;

But just as all the neighbours-on the wall—
Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!"
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay-
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall-
I see a little cloud all pink and grey-
Perhaps the rector's mother will not call—
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way-
I never read the works of Juvenal-

I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H. G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall;
Rationalists are growing rational-

And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,
So secret that the very sky seems small—

I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Finnigin to Flannigan

ENVOI

Prince, I can hear the trump of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall-
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

225

G. K. Chesterton.

FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN

SUPERINTENDENT wuz Flannigan;
Boss av the siction wuz Finnigin;
Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack,
An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back,
Finnigin writ it to Flannigan,

Afther the wrick wuz all on ag'in;

That is, this Finnigin

Repoorted to Flannigan..

Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan,
He writed tin pages-did Finnigin,
An' he tould jist how the smash occurred;
Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd
Did Finnigin write to Flannigan
Afther the cars had gone on ag'in.
That wuz how Finnigin
Repoorted to Flannigan.

Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin-
He'd more idjucation, had Flannigan;
An' it wore'm clane an' complately out
To tell what Finnigin writ about
In his writin' to Muster Flannigan.
So he writed back to Finnigin:
"Don't do sich a sin ag'in;
Make 'em brief, Finnigin!"

Whin Finnigin got this from Flannigan,

He blushed rosy rid, did Finnigin;

An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole month's pa-ay
That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay
Befoore Sup'rintindint-that's Flannigan-
Gits a whack at this very same sin ag'in.
From Finnigin to Flannigan

Repoorts won't be long ag'in."

Wan da-ay, on the siction av Finnigin,
On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan,
A rail give way on a bit av a curve,

An' some kyars went off as they made the swerve. "There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin,

"But repoorts must be made to Flannigan." An' he winked at McGorrigan,

As married a Finnigin.

He wuz shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin,

As minny a railroader's been ag'in,

An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright
In Finnigin's shanty all that night-

Bilin' down his repoort, was Finnigin!

An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan:
Off ag'in, on ag'in,

Gone ag'in-Finnigin."

S. W. Gillinan.

STUDY OF AN ELEVATION, IN INDIAN INK

POTIPHAR GUBBINS, C. E.,

Stands at the top of the tree;

And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led
To the hoisting of Potiphar G.

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,

Is seven years junior to Me;

Each bridge that he makes either buckles or breaks, And his work is as rough as he.

The V-a-s-c

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,

Is coarse as a chimpanzee;

227

And I can't understand why you gave him your hand, Lovely Mehitabel Lee.

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,

Is dear to the Powers that Be;

For they bow and They smile in an affable style
Which is seldom accorded to Me.

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,

Is certain as certain can be

Of a highly paid post which is claimed by a host
Of seniors-including Me.

Careless and lazy is he,
Greatly inferior to Me.

What is the spell that you manage so well,
Commonplace Potiphar G.?

Lovely Mehitabel Lee,

Let me inquire of thee,

Should I have riz to what Potiphar is,

Hadst thou been mated to Me?

Rudyard Kipling.

THE V-A-S-E

FROM the madding crowd they stand apart,
The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone
In which had culture ripest grown,―

The Gotham Million fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,

Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,

For all loved Art in a seemly way,
With an earnest soul and a capital A.

Long they worshiped; but no one broke
The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place,
Who blushing said, "What a lovely vace!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew,

And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred
To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,

She cries, ""Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!"

But brief her unworthy triumph when
The lofty one from the house of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas,
Exclaims, "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill,
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,
And gently murmurs, Oh, pardon me!

"I did not catch your remark, because
I was so entranced with that lovely vaws!"

Dies erit praegelida

Sinistra quum Bostonia.

James Jeffrey Roche.