THE EDITOR’S STORY.
(A YANKEE EDITOR IN ENGLAND.)
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
The Editor dipp’d his pen
in the ink;
He smole a smile and he wunk a wink;
He chuckled a chuck and he thunk a think.
’Twas a time of
Of news, and the earth
Was rolling and bowling along on its axis
With never a murmur concerning the taxes
And never a ruse, or of rumour a particle
Needing a special or claiming an article;
In fact ’twas a terrible time for the papers,
And puzzled the brains of the paragraph shapers,
Till the whole world seem’d nothing but gases and vapours.
And the Editor wrote:
But I’m not going to quote,
Far be it from me to set rumours afloat.
Suffice it to say,
The paper next day
Contain’d such a slasher
For Captain McClasher,
The whole town declared it a regular smasher;
And what made it worse he inserted a rubber,
For the world-renowned millionaire, Alderman Grubber.
Now the Captain, you know, was the son of a gun,
He had fought many duels and never lost one;
He’d met single handed a hundred wild niggers,
All flashing their sabres and pulling their triggers,
And made them all run whether mogul or fellah:
With the flash of his eye and the bash of his ’brella
He tore up rebellion’s wild weeds by the root; and he
Did more than Havelock to put down the mutiny.
And then to be told by “a
thief of an Editor”
He’d been far too long his proud country’s creditor
For pensions unwork’d for and honours unwon,
And that rather than fight he would more likely run;
To be told, who had acted so gallant a part,
He’d more pluck in his heels than he had in his heart!
Why zounds! man—the words used they mostly make Dutch of—
(As warm as the chutney he’d
eaten so much of)
And he gave the poor table a terrible blow,
As he said with an aspirate, “Hi——ll let ’em know.”
And Alderman Grubber was no
Though his gown was all silk and its edge was all ermined,
After thirty years’ service to one corporation
To be libelled at last with the foul allegation,
He’d been “nicely paid for his work for the nation;
That Town Hall and Workhouse, Exchange and Infirmary,
Were all built on ground that by twistings and turnery,
Had been bought through the nose at a fabulous rate
From the patriot lord of the Grubber estate!”
Why, turtle and turbot, hock, champagne and sherry,
’Twould rile the Archbishop of Canterbury!
The Editor sat in his high-backed
He listen’d a hark, and he looked a stare,
A sort of a mixture of humour and scare,
As he heard a footfall on the foot of the stair:
In a moment he buried his head in some “copy,”
As in walked the Captain as red as a poppy.