Jacob Jacobs, of Oakland, he swore: 
“Dat Solomon Martin—­I’ll haf his gore!”
Solomon Martin, of Oakland, he said: 
“Of Shacob Shacobs der bleed I vill shed!”
So they met, with seconds and surgeon at call,
And fought with pistol and powder and—­all
Was done in good faith,—­as before I said,
They fought with pistol and powder and—­shed
Tears, O my friends, for each other they marred
Fighting with pistol and powder and—­lard! 
For the lead had been stolen away, every trace,
And Christian hog-product supplied its place. 
Then the shade of Moses indignant arose: 
“Quvicker dan lighdnings go vosh yer glose!”
Jacob Jacobs, of Oakland, they say,
Applied for a pension the following day. 
Solomon Martin, of Oakland, I hear,
Will call himself Colonel for many a year.

TO W.H.L.B.

Refrain, dull orator, from speaking out,
For silence deepens when you raise the shout;
But when you hold your tongue we hear, at least,
Your noise in mastering that little beast.

EMANCIPATION

Behold! the days of miracle at last
Return—­if ever they were truly past: 
From sinful creditors’ unholy greed
The church called Calvary at last is freed—­
So called for there the Savior’s crucified,
Roberts and Carmany on either side.

The circling contribution-box no more
Provokes the nod and simulated snore;
No more the Lottery, no more the Fair,
Lure the reluctant dollar from its lair,
Nor Ladies’ Lunches at a bit a bite
Destroy the health yet spare the appetite,
While thrifty sisters o’er the cauldron stoop
To serve their God with zeal, their friends with soup,
And all the brethren mendicate the earth
With viewless placards:  “We’ve been so from birth!”

Sure of his wage, the pastor now can lend
His whole attention to his latter end,
Remarking with a martyr’s prescient thrill
The Hemp maturing on the cheerless Hill. 
The holy brethren, lifting pious palms,
Pour out their gratitude in prayer and psalms,
Chant De Profundis, meaning “out of debt,”
And dance like mad—­or would if they were let.

Deeply disguised (a deacon newly dead
Supplied the means) Jack Satan holds his head
As high as any and as loudly sings
His jubilate till each rafter rings. 
“Rejoice, ye ever faithful,” bellows he,
“The debt is lifted and the temple free!”
Then says, aside, with gentle cachination: 
“I’ve got a mortgage on the congregation.”

JOHNDONKEY

    [There isn’t a man living who does not have at least a
    sneaking reverence for a horse-shoe.—­Evening Post.]