Unsainted and unsaintly, for
  He neither went to glory nor
  To abdicate his power deigned
  Where, under Providence, he reigned,

  But kept his Boss’s power accurst
  To serve his wild uncommon thirst. 
  Which now had grown so truly great
  It was a drain upon the State.

  Soon, soon there came a time, alas! 
  When he turned down an empty glass—­
  All practicable means were vain
  His special wassail to obtain.

  In vain poor Decimation tried
  To furnish forth the needful tide;
  And Civil War as vainly shed
  Her niggard offering of red.

  Poor Shanahan! his thirst increased
  Until he wished himself deceased,
  Invoked the firearm and the knife,
  But could not die to save his life!

  He was so dry his own veins made
  No answer to the seeking blade;
  So parched that when he would have passed
  Away he could not breathe his last.

  ’Twas then, when almost in despair,
  (Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair)
  He saw as in a dream a way
  To wet afresh his mortal clay.

  Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan
  (Who was a most ingenious man)
  Saw freedom, and with joy and pride
  “Thalassa! (or Thalatta!)” cried.

  Straight to the Aldermen went he,
  With many a “pull” and many a fee,
  And many a most corrupt “combine”
  (The Press for twenty cents a line

  Held out and fought him—­O, God, bless
  Forevermore the holy Press!)
  Till he had franchises complete
  For trolley lines on every street!

  The cars were builded and, they say,
  Were run on rails laid every way—­
  Rhomboidal roads, and circular,
  And oval—­everywhere a car—­

  Square, dodecagonal (in great
  Esteem the shape called Figure 8)
  And many other kinds of shapes
  As various as tails of apes.

  No other group of men’s abodes
  E’er had such odd electric roads,
  That winding in and winding out,
  Began and ended all about.

  No city had, unless in Mars,
  That city’s wealth of trolley cars. 
  They ran by day, they flew by night,
  And O, the sorry, sorry sight!

  And Hans Pietro Shanahan
  (Who was a most ingenious man)
  Incessantly, the Muse records,
  Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords!

LAUS LUCIS.

  Theosophists are about to build a “Temple for the revival of the
  Mysteries of Antiquity.”—­Vide the Newspapers, passim.

  Each to his taste:  some men prefer to play
  At mystery, as others at piquet. 
  Some sit in mystic meditation; some
  Parade the street with tambourine and drum. 
  One studies to decipher ancient lore
  Which, proving stuff, he studies all the more;
  Another swears that learning is but good
  To darken things already understood,