Ambrose Bierce - Black Beetles in Amber

Great Joseph D. Redding—illustrious name!—
Considered a fish-horn the trumpet of Fame.
That goddess was angry, and what do you think?
Her trumpet she filled with a gallon of ink,
And all through the Press, with a devilish glee,
She sputtered and spattered the name of J.D.

Well, Towser (I'm thinking your name must be Towser),
You're a decentish puppy as puppy dogs go,
For you never, I'm sure, could have dined upon trowser,
And your tail's unimpeachably curled just so.
But, dear me! your name—if 'tis yours—is a "poser":
Its meaning I cannot get anywise at,
When spoken correctly perhaps it is Toser,
And means one who toses. Max Muller, how's that?
I ne'er was ingenious at all at divining
A word's prehistorical, primitive state,
Or finding its root, like a mole, by consigning
Its bloom to the turnep-top's sorrowful fate.
And, now that I think of it well, I'm no nearer
The riddle's solution than ever—for how's
My pretty invented word, "tose," any clearer
In point of its signification than "towse"?
So, Towser (or Toser), I mean to rename you
In honor of some good and eminent man,
In the light and the heat of whose quickening fame you
May grow to an eminent dog if you can.
In sunshine like his you'll not long be a croucher:
The Senate shall hear you—for that I will vouch.
Come here, sir. Stand up. I rechristen you Goucher.
But damn you! I'll shoot you if ever you gouch!

De Young (in Chicago the story is told)
"Took his life in his hand," like a warrior bold,
And stood before Buckley—who thought him behind,
For Buckley, the man-eating monster is blind.
"Count fairly the ballots!" so rang the demand
Of the gallant De Young, with his life in his hand.
'Tis done, and the struggle is ended. No more
He havocs the battle-field, gilt with the gore
Of slain reputations. No more he defies
His "lying opponents" with deadlier lies.
His trumpet is hushed and his belt is unbound—
His enemies' characters cumber the ground.
They bloat on the war-plain with ink all asoak,
The fortunate candidates perching to croak.
No more he will charge, with a daring divine,
His foes with corruption, his friends by the line.
The thunders are stilled of the horrid campaign,
De Young is triumphant, and never again
Will he need, with his life in his hand, to roar:
"Count fair or, by G——, I will die on your floor!"
His life has been spared, for his sins to atone,
And the hand that he took it in washed with cologne.

"Yawp, yawp, yawp!
Under the moon and sun.
It's aye the rabble,
And I to gabble,
And hey! for the tale that is never done.
"Chant, chant, chant!
To woo the reluctant vote.
I would I were dead
And my say were said
And my song were sung to its ultimate note.
"Stab, stab, stab!
Ah! the weapon between my teeth—
I'm sick of the flash of it;
See how the slash of it
Misses the foeman to mangle the sheath!
"Boom, boom, boom!
I'm beating the mammoth drum.
My nethermost tripes
I blow into the pipes—
It's oh! for the honors that never come!"
'Twas the dolorous blab
Of a tramping "scab"—
'Twas the eloquent Swift
Of the marvelous gift—
The wild, weird, wonderful gift of gab!

Weep, weep, each loyal partisan,
For Buckley, king of hearts;
A most accomplished man; a man
Of parts—of foreign parts.
Long years he ruled with gentle sway,
Nor grew his glory dim;
And he would be with us to-day
If we were but with him.
Men wondered at his going off
In such a sudden way;
'Twas thought, as he had come to scoff
He would remain to prey.
Since he is gone we're all agreed
That he is what men call
A crook: his very steps, indeed,
Are bent—to Montreal.
So let our tears unhindered flow,
Our sighs and groans have way:
It matters not how much we Oh!—
The devil is to pay.

O Buddha, had you but foreknown
The vices of your priesthood
It would have made you twist and moan
As any wounded beast would.
You would have damned the entire lot
And turned a Christian, would you not?
There were no Christians, I'll allow,
In your day; that would only
Have brought distinction. Even now
A Christian might feel lonely.
All take the name, but facts are things
As stubborn as the will of kings.
The priests were ignorant and low
When ridiculed by Lucian;
The records, could we read, might show
The same of times Confucian.
And yet the fact I can't disguise
That Deacon Rankin's good and wise.
'Tis true he is not quite a priest,
Nor more than half a preacher;
But he exhorts as loud at least
As any living creature.
And when the plate is passed about
He never takes a penny out.
From Buddha down to Rankin! There,—
I never did intend to.
This pen's a buzzard's quill, I swear,
Such subjects to descend to.
When from the humming-bird I've wrung
A plume I'll write of Mike de Young.

Who told Creed Haymond he was witty?—who
Had nothing better in this world to do?
Could no greased pig's appeal to his embrace
Kindle his ardor for the friendly chase?
Did no dead dog upon a vacant lot,
Bloated and bald, or curdled in a clot,
Stir his compassion and inspire his arms
To hide from human eyes its faded charms?
If not to works of piety inclined,
Then recreation might have claimed his mind.
The harmless game that shows the feline greed
To cinch the shorts and make the market bleed[A]
Is better sport than victimizing Creed;
And a far livelier satisfaction comes
Of knowing Simon, autocrat of thumbs.[B]
If neither worthy work nor play command
This gentleman of leisure's heart and hand,
Then Mammon might his idle spirit lift
By hope of profit to some deed of thrift.
Is there no cheese to pare, no flint to skin,
No tin to mend, no glass to be put in,
No housewife worthy of a morning visit,
Her rags and sacks and bottles to solicit?
Lo! the blind sow's precarious pursuit
Of the aspiring oak's familiar fruit!—
'Twould more advantage any man to steal
This easy victim's undefended meal
Than tell Creed Haymond he has wit, and so
Expose the state to his narcotic flow!
[Footnote A: "Pussy Wants a Corner."]
[Footnote B: "Simon Says Thumbs Up."]

Hawaii's King resigned his breath—
Our Legislature guffawed.
The awful dignity of death
Not any single rough awed.
But when our Legislators die
All Kings, Queens, Jacks and Aces cry.

There was a cranky Governor—
His name it wasn't Waterman.
For office he was hotter than
The love of any lover, nor
Was Boruck's threat of aiding him
Effective in dissuading him—
This pig-headed, big-headed, singularly self-conceited Governor Nonwaterman.
To citrus fairs, et cætera ,
He went about philandering,
To pride of parish pandering.
He knew not any better—ah,
His early education had
Not taught the abnegation fad—
The wool-witted, bull-witted, fabulously feeble-minded king of gabble-gandering!
He conjured up, ad libitum ,
With postures energetical,
One day (this is prophetical)
His graces, to exhibit 'em.
He straddled in each attitude,
Four parallels of latitude—
The slab-footed, crab-footed, galloping gregarian, of presence unæsthetical!
An ancient cow, perceiving that
His powers of agility
Transcended her ability
(A circumstance for grieving at)
Upon her horns engrafted him
And to the welkin wafted him—
The high-rolling, sky-rolling, hurtling hallelujah-lad of peerless volatility!