I grant, in short, 'tis better all around
That ambidextrous consciences abound
In courts of law to do the dirty work
That self-respecting scavengers would shirk.
What then? Who serves however clean a plan
By doing dirty work, he is a dirty man!
ACCEPTED
Charles Shortridge once to St. Peter came.
"Down!" cried the saint with his face aflame;
"'Tis writ that every hardy liar
Shall dwell forever and ever in fire!"
"That's what I said the night that I died,"
The sinner, turning away, replied.
"What! _you_ said that?" cried the saint--"what! what!
_You_ said 'twas so writ? Then, faith, 'tis _not!_
I'm a devil at quoting, but I begin
To fail in my memory. Pray walk in."
A PROMISED FAST TRAIN
I turned my eyes upon the Future's scroll
And saw its pictured prophecies unroll.
I saw that magical life-laden train
Flash its long glories o'er Nebraska's plain.
I saw it smoothly up the mountain glide.
"O happy, happy passengers!" I cried.
For Pleasure, singing, drowned the engine's roar,
And Hope on joyous pinions flew before.
Then dived the train adown the sunset slope--
Pleasure was silent and unseen was Hope.
Crashes and shrieks attested the decay
That greed had wrought upon that iron way.
The rusted rails broke down the rotting ties,
And clouds of flying spikes obscured the skies.
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