Shapes of Clay Part 33

The Widows of Ashur Are loud in their wailing: "No longer the 'masher'

Sees Widows of Ashur!"

So each is a lasher Of Man's smallest failing.

The Widows of Ashur Are loud in their wailing.

The Cave of Adullam, That home of reviling-- No wooing can gull 'em In Cave of Adullam.

No angel can lull 'em To cease their defiling The Cave of Adullam, That home of reviling.

At men they are cursing-- The Widows of Ashur; Themselves, too, for nursing The men they are cursing.

The praise they're rehearsing Of every slasher At men. _They_ are cursing The Widows of Ashur.

A WHIPPER-IN.

[Commissioner of Pensions Dudley has established a Sunday-school and declares he will remove any clerk in his department who does not regularly attend.--_N.Y. World.]_

Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and note, Worthy of honor from a feeble pen Blunted in service of all true, good men, You serve the Lord--in courses, _table d'hote: Au, naturel,_ as well as _a la Nick_-- "Eat and be thankful, though it make you sick."

O, truly pious caterer, forbear To push the Saviour and Him crucified _(Brochette_ you'd call it) into their inside Who're all unused to such ambrosial fare.

The stomach of the soul makes quick revulsion Of aught that it has taken on compulsion.

I search the Scriptures, but I do not find That e'er the Spirit beats with angry wings For entrance to the heart, but sits and sings To charm away the scruples of the mind.

It says: "Receive me, please; I'll not compel"-- Though if you don't you will go straight to h.e.l.l!

Well, that's compulsion, you will say. 'T is true: We cower timidly beneath the rod Lifted in menace by an angry G.o.d, But won't endure it from an ape like you.

Detested simian with thumb prehensile, Switch _me_ and I would brain you with my pencil!

Face you the Throne, nor dare to turn your back On its transplendency to flog some wight Who gropes and stumbles in the infernal night Your ugly shadow lays along his track.

O, Thou who from the Temple scourged the sin, Behold what rascals try to scourge it in!

JUDGMENT.

I drew aside the Future's veil And saw upon his bier The poet Whitman. Loud the wail And damp the falling tear.

"He's dead--he is no more!" one cried, With sobs of sorrow crammed; "No more? He's this much more," replied Another: "he is d.a.m.ned!"

1885.

THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN.

Hear me sing of Sally Larkin who, I'd have you understand, Played accordions as well as any lady in the land; And I've often heard it stated that her fingering was such That Professor Schweinenhauer was enchanted with her touch; And that beasts were so affected when her apparatus rang That they dropped upon their haunches and deliriously sang.

This I know from testimony, though a critic, I opine, Needs an ear that is dissimilar in some respects to mine.

She could sing, too, like a jaybird, and they say all eyes were wet When Sally and the ranch-dog were performing a duet-- Which I take it is a song that has to be so loudly sung As to overtax the strength of any single human lung.

That, at least, would seem to follow from the tale I have to tell, Which (I've told you how she flourished) is how Sally Larkin fell.

One day there came to visit Sally's dad as sleek and smart A chap as ever wandered there from any foreign part.

Though his gentle birth and breeding he did not at all obtrude It was somehow whispered round he was a simon-pure Dude.

Howsoe'er that may have been, it was conspicuous to see That he _was_ a real Gent of an uncommon high degree.

That Sally cast her tender and affectionate regards On this exquisite creation was, of course, upon the cards; But he didn't seem to notice, and was variously blind To her many charms of person and the merits of her mind, And preferred, I grieve to say it, to play poker with her dad, And acted in a manner that in general was bad.

One evening--'twas in summer--she was holding in her lap Her accordion, and near her stood that melancholy chap, Leaning up against a pillar with his lip in grog imbrued, Thinking, maybe, of that ancient land in which he was a Dude.

Then Sally, who was melancholy too, began to hum And elongate the accordion with a preluding thumb.

Then sighs of amorosity from Sally L. exhaled, And her music apparatus sympathetically wailed.

"In the gloaming, O my darling!" rose that wild impa.s.sioned strain, And her eyes were fixed on his with an intensity of pain, Till the ranch-dog from his kennel at the postern gate came round, And going into session strove to magnify the sound.

He lifted up his spirit till the gloaming rang and rang With the song that to _his_ darling he impetuously sang!

Then that musing youth, recalling all his soul from other scenes, Where his fathers all were Dudes and his mothers all Dudines, From his lips removed the beaker and politely, o'er the grog, Said: "Miss Larkin, please be quiet: you will interrupt the dog."

IN HIGH LIFE.

Sir Impycu Lackland, from over the sea, Has led to the altar Miss Bloatie Bondee.

The wedding took place at the Church of St. Blare; The fas.h.i.+on, the rank and the wealth were all there-- No person was absent of all whom one meets.

Lord Mammon himself bowed them into their seats, While good Sir John Satan attended the door And s.e.xton Beelzebub managed the floor, Respectfully keeping each dog to its rug, Preserving the peace between poodle and pug.

Twelve bridesmaids escorted the bride up the aisle To blush in her blush and to smile in her smile; Twelve groomsmen supported the eminent groom To scowl in his scowl and to gloom in his gloom.

The rites were performed by the hand and the lip Of his Grace the Diocesan, Billingham Pip, a.s.sisted by three able-bodied divines.

He prayed and they grunted, he read, they made signs.

Such fas.h.i.+on, such beauty, such dressing, such grace Were ne'er before seen in that heavenly place!

That night, full of gin, and all blazing inside, Sir Impycu blackened the eyes of his bride.

A BUBBLE.

Mrs. Mehitable Marcia Moore Was a dame of superior mind, With a gown which, modestly fitting before, Was greatly puffed up behind.

The bustle she wore was ingeniously planned With an inspiration bright: It magnified seven diameters and Was remarkably nice and light.

It was made of rubber and edged with lace And riveted all with bra.s.s, And the whole immense interior s.p.a.ce Inflated with hydrogen gas.

The ladies all said when she hove in view Like the round and rising moon: "She's a stuck up thing!" which was partly true, And men called her the Captive Balloon.