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The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!

In holy anger and pious grief

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! Never was heard such a terrible curse!

But what gave rise to no little surprise,
Nobody seemed one penny the worse !

The day was gone, the night came on,
The monks and the friars they searched till dawn;

When the şacristan saw, on crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!

No longer gay, as on yesterday; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way; His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand, His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;

His eye so dim, so wasted each limb, Regardless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM! That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing, That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring !"

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,
And off that terrible curse he took;

The mute expression served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution !

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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, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!

His tail waggled more even than before; But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair.

He hopped now about with a gait devout; At matins, at vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied, or if any one swore, Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore,

That good Jackdaw would give a great “Caw!” As much as to say, “Don't do so any more!” While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw!

He long lived the pride of that country side, And at last in the order of sanctity died:

When, as words were too faint his merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a Saint. And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow, So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!



Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier,
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,
Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust
Of what the good, and e’en the bad, might say,
Ordained that no man living, from that day,

Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.
All Araby and Persia held their breath;

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All but the brave Mondeer; he, proud to show
How far for love a grateful soul could go,
And facing death for very scorn and grief
(For his great heart wanted a great relief),
Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square
Where once had stood a happy house, and there
Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar
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,
“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
The mightiest vengeance could not fall amiss,
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great.
He said, “Let worth grow frenzied if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!”
“Gifts !” cried the friend; he took, and holding it
High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,
Exclaimed, “This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar !”



Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives,

Because he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit

Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years,

That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludsoe passed in his checks,

The night of the Prairie Belle?

He warn't no saint — them engineers

Is all pretty much alike -
One wife in Natchez-Under-the-Hill,

And another one here in Pike.
A careless man in his talk was Jim,

And an awkward man in a row
But he never funked, and he never lied

I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had

To treat his engine well;
Never be passed on the river;

To mind the pilot's bell;
And if ever the Prairie Bell took fire,

A thousand times he swore,
He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip',

And her day came at last

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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 burnt a hole in the night,
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 know'd he would keep his word.
And sure's you're born, they all got off

Afore the smokestacks fell,
And Bludsoe's ghost went up alone

In the smoke of Prairie Belle.

He warn't no saint - but at judgment

I'd run my chance with Jim Longside of some pious gentleman

That wouldn't shook hands with him.
He'd seen his duty, a dead sure thing,

And went fer it thar and then;
And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard

On a man that died for men.

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