Schuyler smiler, Schuyler smiler, From the spire, rising higher, Rings and swings and sings The bell, That of a politician’s heaven seems to tell. Of a deeper, coarser tone Chimes the bass a lengthened groan, For it tells alone, Alone, Of the punishment that’s sent In the person of our President. Dull and hollow, how it moans In its heavy undertones! As if it sought to tell―― That bell―― Of a burdened people doomed to toil That rogues may fatten off a wasted soil; Of want and degradation dire, War, pestilence and fire; Where rules no ballot but the bayonet, And Liberty that was and is not yet; Of Peace, sweet Peace and great content, Ere the coarse soldier came to be our President Of office sold for gifts; Of a low greed that lifts Mean men to power, When cowards rule while good men cower. How it rolls and roars, And on us pours Its flood of heavy sound The vibrating air around, As the iron tongue upon the iron rim Clangs out its cry of sin: Fasting and prayer for a people curs’d Of all ills the evil far the worst―― A stupid tyranny that brings No compensation on its blackened wings. These are the Newman chimes, And these our modern times. Were Our Saviour, with weary feet, Again to walk the dusty street, And see that lofty steeple; Hear its clangor calling in the people See the saints with saintly faces; In diamonds, silks, and costly laces Thronging to their downy places―― Hear his apostle state From marble stall to velvet-cushioned seats, Not the words of peace, but those of deadly hate While Mammon the scene completes―― Much would He marvel, and we fear, Seizing the rod Would drive old Newman out, and clear Our goodly people from the house of God. Ding, dong, bell, Hear them swell―― Pratt, G flat, scat! Schuyler smiler, Schuyler smiler; While groans And moans In heavy undertones The Presidential bell. D. P. _The Capital_, (_U.S.A._) November 26, 1871. ――――:o:―――― THE BILLS. BY THE LATE EDGAR ALLAN TOE. I. Hear the duns with lots of bills―― Unpaid bills! What a world of merriment their misery distils! How they rattle, rattle, rattle, On your sported outer door! While within you drink and prattle. For an oak is half the battle With a dun――unchristian bore, Keeping knock, knock, knock, Like a sort of ticking clock, To the bitter tribulation of your gyp whose hand he fills With his bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills, With a lumping and a thumping lot of bills, II.