Upon the old black guns The old black raven hops; We gave him bits of buns And cakes and acid-drops; He's wise, and his way's devout, But he croaks and he flaps his wings (And the flood runs out and the sergeants shout) For the first and the last of things; He croaks to Robinson, Brown, and Jones, The song of the ravens, "_Dead Men's Bones!_" For into the lifting dark And a drizzle of clearing rain, His sire flapped out of the Ark And never came back again; So I always fancy that, Ere the frail lost blue showed thin, Alone he sat upon Ararat To see a new world in, And yelped to the void from a cairn of stones The song of the ravens, "_Dead Men's Bones!_" When the last of mankind lie slain On Armageddon's field, When the last red west has ta'en The last day's flaming shield, There shall sit when the shadows run (D'you doubt, good Sirs, d'you doubt?) His last rogue son on an empty gun To see an old world out; And he'll croak (as to Robinson, Brown and Jones) The song of the ravens, "_Dead Men's Bones!_" * * * * * [Illustration: THE LIBERAL CAVE-MEN; OR, A HOLT FROM THE BLUE. HARASSED CHANCELLOR. "IT'S NOT SO MUCH FOR MY FEET THAT I MIND--THEY'RE HARDENED AGAINST THIS KIND OF THING; BUT I DO HATE ROCKS ON MY HEAD."] * * * * * [Illustration: THE MARCH OF CIVILISATION IN IRELAND. _Tim._ "WELL, PATSY, ARE YE AFTHER BUILDING AN ADDITION TO YER HOUSE?" _Patsy._ "SHURE AND THE HINS LIKES A PLACE TO THIMSILVES."] * * * * * TEMPERING THE WIND; OR, THE INDEMNIFICATION OF ANTONIO. [_In the Census returns for 1911, recently published, organ-grinders are no longer counted as musicians._] When buffets from the frowning Fates demoralise, And all the spirit yearns for honeyed death; When limply on the harper's brow the laurel lies And something in his bosom deeply saith, "N.G. I give it up! Behold! misshapen is The bowler that surmounts my glorious mane; Life is all kicks without the boon of halfpennies; The rates are here again;"---- 'Tis sweet, 'tis very sweet to gaze at Helicon And think, "On me the sacred fire has dropped, The lute, at any rate, still hangs, a relic, on This diaphragm, although the shirt is popped;" And so it was, I ween, with your position, Ansonia's sunny child, from house to house Aye wandering: still you ranked as a musician, The same as Dr. STRAUSS. People were rude to you: they said, "Be gibbetted!" In many a ruthless road your cheek grew wan Where hawkers and street-music were prohibited And stout policemen urged you to get on; Yet still that stubborn heart, the heart of CATO'S kin, Stayed you, and still the gleam that cannot die, Though every now and then an old potato skin Did welt you in the eye.