He thought of all the vows he’d broken, He thought of falsehoods lightly told, Of all the hasty words he’d spoken, And all the tricks he’d played for gold. “Ah me!” he cried, “I own my sin, So, pitying angel, let me in!” The angel heard the sinner’s tale, He blushed not, neither turned he pale, But “Think you then,” in wrath he cried, “For crimes like these to pass inside? Your life’s not been so badly spent; You must do something worse by far. Come back with something to repent, And then I’ll raise the crystal bar.” The sinner he flew from the spot sublime Away to the earth below, “I wonder,” he thought, “what kind of crime Is reckoned the worst _en haut_.” He picked a pocket and stole a purse; He plotted against the Crown; He changed two babies put out to nurse, And he left a dog to drown. “Good,” said the angel as he heard A list of the sinner’s sins; “But this is only about a third Of the crime that entrance wins. Your record, I trow, must be blacker far Before I can raise the crystal bar.” The sinner flew back to the earth once more, And he steeped his hands in his brother’s gore; He poisoned his wife by slow degrees, And hanged his twins on a couple of trees; And then with a broken and rusty saw He cut off the head of his mother-in-law; And he cried, as a shuddering world turned sick, “If the chaplain’s right I have done the trick.” Once more he stood before the gate And told his tale and asked his fate. The angel smiled--said, “Right you are,” And swiftly raised the crystal bar. But oh, when the sinner was once inside, “There is some mistake!” he in terror cried, As down in the bottomless pit he fell, And found he had knocked at the gate of hell. “It was your mistake,” the angel said, “To think that because your hands were red You could pass at once to the realms above, The beautiful realms of peace and love. The clerical gents may tell you so, _But this is the place to which murderers go_.” The Income Tax. Oh, Goschen, hear us groan, Relieve our burdened backs; We weep and wail and moan, “Reduce the income tax!” It is a wicked plan, And decency it lacks; It makes a Christian man Say, “Hang the income tax!” Poor Job, he had to bear Some very nasty smacks, But nothing to compare With this infernal tax. Not all his pains and aches Could put him in a wax; But he’d have shouted, “Snakes!” If asked for income tax. Oh, take the curse away, The cruel curse that racks: Why should free Britons pay This most un-British tax? For years has raged the fight, Be yours the cry of “Pax,” And, Britain’s wrongs to right, Remove the income tax.