"Boom, boom, boom! I'm beating the mammoth drum. My nethermost tripes I blow into the pipes-- It's oh! for the honors that never come!" 'Twas the dolorous blab Of a tramping "scab"-- 'Twas the eloquent Swift Of the marvelous gift-- The wild, weird, wonderful gift of gab! IGNIS FATUUS Weep, weep, each loyal partisan, For Buckley, king of hearts; A most accomplished man; a man Of parts--of foreign parts. Long years he ruled with gentle sway, Nor grew his glory dim; And he would be with us to-day If we were but with him. Men wondered at his going off In such a sudden way; 'Twas thought, as he had come to scoff He would remain to prey. Since he is gone we're all agreed That he is what men call A crook: his very steps, indeed, Are bent--to Montreal. So let our tears unhindered flow, Our sighs and groans have way: It matters not how much we Oh!-- The devil is to pay. FROM TOP TO BOTTOM [Japan has 73,759 Buddhist priests, "most of whom," says a Christian missionary, "are grossly ignorant, and many of them lead scandalous lives."] O Buddha, had you but foreknown The vices of your priesthood It would have made you twist and moan As any wounded beast would. You would have damned the entire lot And turned a Christian, would you not? There were no Christians, I'll allow, In your day; that would only Have brought distinction. Even now A Christian might feel lonely. All take the name, but facts are things As stubborn as the will of kings. The priests were ignorant and low When ridiculed by Lucian; The records, could we read, might show The same of times Confucian. And yet the fact I can't disguise That Deacon Rankin's good and wise. 'Tis true he is not quite a priest, Nor more than half a preacher; But he exhorts as loud at least As any living creature. And when the plate is passed about He never takes a penny out. From Buddha down to Rankin! There,-- I never did intend to. This pen's a buzzard's quill, I swear, Such subjects to descend to. When from the humming-bird I've wrung A plume I'll write of Mike de Young. AN IDLER Who told Creed Haymond he was witty?--who Had nothing better in this world to do? Could no greased pig's appeal to his embrace Kindle his ardor for the friendly chase? Did no dead dog upon a vacant lot, Bloated and bald, or curdled in a clot, Stir his compassion and inspire his arms To hide from human eyes its faded charms?