THE PSORIAD.

The King of Scotland, years and years ago, Convened his courtiers in a gallant row And thus addressed them:

"Gentle sirs, from you Abundant counsel I have had, and true: What laws to make to serve the public weal; What laws of Nature's making to repeal; What old religion is the only true one, And what the greater merit of some new one; What friends of yours my favor have forgot; Which of your enemies against me plot.

In harvests ample to augment my treasures, Behold the fruits of your sagacious measures!

The punctual planets, to their periods just, Attest your wisdom and approve my trust.

Lo! the reward your shining virtues bring: The grateful placemen bless their useful king!

But while you quaff the nectar of my favor I mean somewhat to modify its flavor By just infusing a peculiar dash Of tonic bitter in the calabash.

And should you, too abstemious, disdain it, Egad! I'll hold your noses till you drain it!

"You know, you dogs, your master long has felt A keen distemper in the royal pelt-- A testy, superficial irritation, Brought home, I fancy, from some foreign nation.

For this a thousand simples you've prescribed-- Unguents external, draughts to be imbibed.

You've plundered Scotland of its plants, the seas You've ravished, and despoiled the Hebrides, To brew me remedies which, in probation, Were sovereign only in their application.

In vain, and eke in pain, have I applied Your flattering unctions to my soul and hide: Physic and hope have been my daily food-- I've swallowed treacle by the holy rood!

"Your wisdom, which sufficed to guide the year And tame the seasons in their mad career, When set to higher purposes has failed me And added anguish to the ills that ailed me.

Nor that alone, but each ambitious leech His rivals' skill has labored to impeach By hints equivocal in secret speech.

For years, to conquer our respective broils, We've plied each other with pacific oils.

In vain: your turbulence is unallayed, My flame unquenched; your rioting unstayed; My life so wretched from your strife to save it That death were welcome did I dare to brave it.

With zeal inspired by your intemperate pranks, My subjects muster in contending ranks.

Those fling their banners to the startled breeze To champion some royal ointment; these The standard of some royal purge display And 'neath that ensign wage a wasteful fray!

Brave tongues are thundering from sea to sea, Torrents of sweat roll reeking o'er the lea!

My people perish in their martial fear, And rival bagpipes cleave the royal ear!

"Now, caitiffs, tremble, for this very hour Your injured sovereign shall a.s.sert his power!

Behold this lotion, carefully compound Of all the poisons you for me have found-- Of biting washes such as tan the skin, And drastic drinks to vex the parts within.

What aggravates an ailment will produce-- I mean to rub you with this dreadful juice!

Divided counsels you no more shall hatch-- At last you shall unanimously scratch.

Kneel, villains, kneel, and doff your shirts--G.o.d bless us!

They'll seem, when you resume them, robes of Nessus!"

The sovereign ceased, and, sealing what he spoke, From Arthur's Seat[1] confirming thunders broke.

The conscious culprits, to their fate resigned, Sank to their knees, all piously inclined.

This act, from high Ben Lomond where she floats, The thrifty G.o.ddess, Caledonia, notes.

Glibly as nimble sixpence, down she tilts Headlong, and ravishes away their kilts, Tears off each plaid and all their shirts discloses, Removes each shirt and their broad backs exposes.

The king advanced--then cursing fled amain Dashing the phial to the stony plain (Where't straight became a fountain br.i.m.m.i.n.g o'er, Whence Father Tweed derives his liquid store) For lo! already on each back _sans_ st.i.tch The red sign manual of the Rosy Witch!

[Footnote 1: A famous height overlooking Edinburgh.]

ONEIROMANCY.

I fell asleep and dreamed that I Was flung, like Vulcan, from the sky; Like him was lamed--another part: His leg was crippled and my heart.

I woke in time to see my love Conceal a letter in her glove.

PEACE.

When lion and lamb have together lain down Spectators cry out, all in chorus; "The lamb doesn't shrink nor the lion frown-- A miracle's working before us!"

But 't is patent why Hot-head his wrath holds in, And Faint-heart her terror and loathing; For the one's but an a.s.s in a lion's skin, The other a wolf in sheep's clothing.

THANKSGIVING.

_The Superintendent of an Almshouse. A Pauper._

SUPERINTENDENT:

So _you're_ unthankful--you'll not eat the bird?

You sit about the place all day and gird.

I understand you'll not attend the ball That's to be given to-night in Pauper Hall.

PAUPER:

Why, that is true, precisely as you've heard: I have no teeth and I will eat no bird.

SUPERINTENDENT:

Ah! see how good is Providence. Because Of teeth He has denuded both your jaws The fowl's made tender; you can overcome it By suction; or at least--well, you can gum it, Attesting thus the dictum of the preachers That Providence is good to all His creatures-- Turkeys excepted. Come, ungrateful friend, If our Thanksgiving dinner you'll attend You shall say grace--ask G.o.d to bless at least The soft and liquid portions of the feast.

PAUPER.

Without those teeth my speech is rather thick-- He'll hardly understand Gum Arabic.

No, I'll not dine to-day. As to the ball, 'Tis known to you that I've no legs at all.

I had the gout--hereditary; so, As it could not be cornered in my toe They cut my legs off in the fond belief That shortening me would make my anguish brief.

Lacking my legs I could not prosecute With any good advantage a pursuit; And so, because my father chose to court Heaven's favor with his ortolans and Port (Thanksgiving every day!) the Lord supplied Saws for my legs, an almshouse for my pride And, once a year, a bird for my inside.

No, I'll not dance--my light fantastic toe Took to its heels some twenty years ago.

Some small repairs would be required for putting My feelings on a saltatory footing.

_(Sings)_

O the legless man's an unhappy chap-- _Tum-hi, tum-hi, tum-he o'haddy._ The favors o' fortune fall not in his lap-- _Tum-hi, tum-heedle-do hum._ The plums of office avoid his plate No matter how much he may stump the State-- _Tum-hi, ho-heeee._ The gra.s.s grows never beneath his feet, But he cannot hope to make both ends meet-- _Tum-hi._ With a gleeless eye and a somber heart, He plays the role of his mortal part: Wholly himself he can never be.

O, a soleless corporation is he!

_Tum_.