1884.

MR. SHEETS

The Devil stood before the gate
Of Heaven.  He had a single mate: 
Behind him, in his shadow, slunk
Clay Sheets in a perspiring funk. 
“Saint Peter, see this season ticket,”
Said Satan; “pray undo the wicket.” 
The sleepy Saint threw slight regard
Upon the proffered bit of card,
Signed by some clerical dead-beats: 
“Admit the bearer and Clay Sheets.” 
Peter expanded all his eyes: 
“’Clay Sheets?’—­well, I’ll be damned!” he cries. 
“Our couches are of golden cloud;
Nothing of earth is here allowed. 
I’ll let you in,” he added, shedding
On Nick a smile—­“but not your bedding.”

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!