COLUMBUS.
COLUMBUS! We read of him every day,
In books, pamphlets, magazines, papers;
Whilst Italy, Portugal, Spain, U.S.A.,
Cut constant, consecutive capers.
They started last month with reviews on the main;
On the land with processions—a quaint row.
Such the fêtes, aptly called by the French "Fêtes de Gènes,"
Fait accompli, good luck, ça nous gêne trop!
But never say die; now Huelva goes on,
New York follows, steady and sober,
And Chicago makes ready for more derned, dog gone
Fêtes to last till, at least, next October!
COLUMBUS, your search for a sort of New Cut
Was meant for the best, we don't doubt it;
No harm in discovering Continents, but
You might have said nothing about it.
Still, had you not found a location for clam,
Canvas back, buckwheat cakes, we should sorter
Have missed the acquaintance of 'cute Uncle SAM,
And his fearless, free, fragile, fair daughter.
COLUMBUS! The newspapers never will drop
This subject; we wish, as months roll on,
Some common bacillus had put a full stop
Long ago to Don CHRISTOBAL COLON!