And if he pecks at you I'll cut his comb.
"He's only here because the Devil swore
He wouldn't have him, for the smile he wore."
Resting his eyes one moment on that proof
Of saving grace, the Frenchman turned aloof,
And stepping down from cloud to cloud, said he:
"Thank you, monsieur,--I'll see if he'll have _me_."
A CRITIC
[Apparently the Cleveland _Leader_ is not a good judge of
poetry.--_The Morning Call_.]
That from _you_, neighbor! to whose vacant lot
Each rhyming literary knacker scourges
His cart-compelling Pegasus to trot,
As folly, fame or famine smartly urges?
Admonished by the stimulating goad,
How gaily, lo! the spavined crow-bait prances--
Its cart before it--eager to unload
The dead-dog sentiments and swill-tub fancies.
Gravely the sweating scavenger pulls out
The tail-board of his curst imagination,
Shoots all his rascal rubbish, and, no doubt,
Thanks Fortune for so good a dumping-station.
To improve your property, the vile cascade
Your thrift invites--to make a higher level.
In vain: with tons of garbage overlaid,
Your baseless bog sinks slowly to the devil.
"Rubbish may be shot here"--familiar sign!
I seem to see it in your every column.
You have your wishes, but if I had mine
'Twould to your editor mean something solemn.
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