The autumn morn was bright and fair, Fresh as a rose with recent rain. The pidgins tortled through the air, But nary one came home again. Some feathers dropped in Chestnut Street, Some bills and claws among the logs: Wipin’ a tear, “I greatly fear That all’s not right,” said Mr. Boggs. Into the _Chronicle_ he went, Twice as mysterious as before, “And _hev_ you heard the orful news?” He whispered as he shet the door. “Oh, I hev come to tell a tale Of crime, which all creation flogs, Of wretchery And treachery That bangs tarnation sin,” said Boggs. “Them _Ledger_ fellers with their tricks, Hev slopped clean over crime’s dark cup. They’ve bin an’ bought some pidging-horks, And they hev _et_ our pidgings up. Oh, whut is life wuth livin’ fur When editors behave like hogs? An’ ragin’ crime Makes double time; Oh, darn setch villany!” cried Boggs. “But hark! bee-hold, to-morrer, thou In deep revenge may dry your tears; I hev a plan, which, you’ll allow, Beats all-git-out when it eppears. The ragin’ eagle of the North, The bird which all creation flogs, Will cause them horks To walk ther chalks, An’ give us grand revenge,” said Boggs. “Them glorious birds of liberty, Them symbols of our country’s fame, Wild, sarsy, furious, and free, Indeliably rowdy game; They shall revenge them gentile doves, Our harmless messengers, by Gogs! In which the horks Hev stuck ther forks,” Cried Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. “For in my glorious natyve land Acrost the river, down below, I hev a farm, and in the barn Six captyve eagles in a row: One hundred dollars fur a pair; Fetch out the flimsies frum your togs An’ up on high _I’ll_ make ’em fly,” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. But this same editor had heard Some hint or rumour, faint or dim, How Mister Boggs, it was averred, Was coming Paddy over him. An earlier tale of soapy deeds Then gave his memory startling jogs, And full of wrath Right in his path He went for Zion Jersey Boggs. “Horses and pidgins—pidgin-horks”— That was enough to raise his Dutch: He saw it all—and also saw The eagle—“Just one bird too much.” Too mad to mind his shootin’-iron, And throw good powder to the dogs, He grabbed his chair, And then and there Corrected Zion Jersey Boggs. After long years had rolled away, And Morse’s telegraph came in, Still on the facing rival roofs Two grey old cages could be seen, And young reporters o’er their drinks Would tell each other—jolly dogs— Of ancient time What in this rhyme I’ve told of Zion Jersey Boggs. THE BALLAD OF THE GREEN OLD MAN