The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! But what gave rise to no little surprise, The day was gone, the night came on, No longer gay, as on yesterday; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way; Regardless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM! The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And turned his bald head as much as to say, "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower he limped on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry-door, Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the RING, in the nest of the little Jackdaw! Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, The mute expression served in lieu of confession, When these words were heard, the poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd: He grew slick and fat; in addition to that, He hopped now about with a gait devout; Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore, When, as words were too faint his merits to paint, JAFFAR LEIGH HUNT Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. All but the brave Mondeer; he, proud to show On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. "Bring me this man," the caliph cried; the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. 'Welcome, brave cords," cried he, 66 "From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me; From wants, from shames, from loveliest household fears, Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Restored me, loved me, put me on a par With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?" Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!" JIM BLUDSOE1 JOHN HAY Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives, Whar have you been for the last three years, How Jimmy Bludsoe passed in his checks, The night of the Prairie Belle? Is all pretty much alike One wife in Natchez-Under-the-Hill, And another one here in Pike. But he never flunked, and he never lied - All boats has their day on the Mississip', By permission of Mrs. Hay. The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle, she wouldn't be passed, And so came a-tearin' along that night, The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine. The fire burst out as she cleared the bar, And quick as a flash she turned and made For that willer-bank on the right. Ther' was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Thro' the hot black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludsoe's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And Bludsoe's ghost went up alone He warn't no saint-but at judgment That wouldn't shook hands with him. |