POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1787, 12 November 1879, Page 3

POETRY.

THIS MAN JONES. This man Jones was what you’d call A feller as bed no sand at all; Kind o’ consumpted, and udersize, And sailor-completed, with big sad eyes, And a kind-of-sort-of-a-hang-dog style. And a snakin’ aort-of-a-half-way smile That kind o’ give him away to us As a preacher, maybe, or sompin’ wuss. Didn’t take with the gang—well, no— But still we managed to use him, though— Ooddin’ the gilley along the route. And drivin’ the stages that he pulled out;— For 1 was one of the bosses, then, And of course, stood in with the canvasman — And the way we put up jobs, yon know, On this man Jones, jes’ beat the show 1 Used to rattle him scandalous, And keep the feller a-dodgin’ us, And a-shyin’ round jea’ steered to death, And afeered to whimper above his breath; Give him a cussin’, and then a kick. And then a kind-of-a back-hand lick— Jes’ for the fun of seeia’ him climb Around with a head on half the time. But what was the curious thing to me, Was along o’ the party—let me see— Who was onr “ Lion Queen ” last year 7 Mamzelle Santy or De La Pierre— Well, no matter I —a stnnnin’ mash, With a red ripe lip, and a long eye-lash, And a figure sich as the angels owns— And one too many for this man Jones. He’d always wake in the afternoon. And the hand waltzed in on the lion tune, And tbar, from the time that she’d go in Till she’d back out of the cage agin. He’d stand shaky and limber-kneed—-’Specially when she come to “ feed The beasts raw meat with her naked hand And all the business, you understand. And it was reeky in that den — For I think she juggled three cubs then. And a big “ green ” lion aa used to smash Collar bones lor old Frank Nash; And I reckon now she haint forgot The afternoon old “ Nero ” sot His paws on hub I—but as for me ’ It is a sort of a mixed-up mystery Kind o’ remember an awful roar, And see her back for the bolted door—, See the cage rock—heerd her call “ God have mercy ’’—and that was all— For tbar haint no livin’ man can tell What it’s like when a thousand yell In female tones, and a thousand more Howl in bass till their throats is sore. But the keeper said as they dragged her out, 1 They heard some feller laugh and shout: •• Save her 1 Quick 1 I’ve got the cuss ) And yit she waked and smiled on us— And we daren’t flinch, for the doctor said, * Seein’ as this man Jones was dead, s Better to jea’ not let her know 1 Nothin’ o’ that for a week or so. 3 THE FOOL’S PRAYER. 3 —— f The royal feast was done; the king a Sought some new sport to banish care, i And to his jester cried, “ Sir Fool, 3 Kneel now, and make lor ns a prayer ! ” * The jester doffed his cap and bells, *. And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smile “ Behind the painted grin he wore. ® He bowed his head, and bent his knee “ Upon the Monarch’s silken stool; His pleading voice arose : “ O Lord, S Be merciful to me, a fool I u << No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; a The rod must heal the sin; but Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool 1 a “ ’Tis not by guilt, the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord., we stay; u ’Tis by our follies that so long I, We hold the earth from heaven away. “ These clumsy feet, still in the mire, , Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust e Among the heart-strings of a friend, f “ The ill-timed truth we might have kept— n m who knows how sharped it pierced and stung ? h The word we bad not sense to say— Who knows how grandly it had rung 7 !B “ Our faults no tenderness should ask, ’j The chastening stripes must cleanse then Q » But for our blunders—oh, in shame , n Before the eyes of heaven we fall: “ Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; i* Men crown the knave and scourge the too ui That did his will; but Thou, C) Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool 1 16 of The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his garden cool, ig And walked apart, and murmured low, ig 11 Be merciful to me, a fool I"