So hell's acolyte satanic, where the tinkling glasses gleamed,
Told the story of his triumphs to that other Master Fiend;
While the laughter, wild, discordant, broke amidst the
streaming lights,
In the nearing midnight hour on that ribald night of nights.
Told how when, in prisons lonely, men, repenting all too late,
Wake in frightful desolation, cursing at their woeful fate;
Wake to awful understanding of hands red with bloody stains,
Wake to hear his voice exultant crying in their clearing brains—
"Mortal, who in drunken frenzy consummated thy red deed,
Now awakened and in terror, now, oh, now I take my meed—
Satiate my hate with gloating, as remorse shrieks in thy brain,
When thy bloodshot eyes protruding read thy doom in that red stain!"
Told of bright homes rent and broken, of sweet maidens downward drawn;
There recited stories sombre of the lives he held in pawn;
Till the bright lamps dimmed and darkened, till each
maudlin wretch sought home,
Leaving, in the darkness gloating, Drink's dread demon throned alone.
COPPER JOHNNY[[1]]
You have seen him on the street
Every day,
Heard the shuffle of his feet
On the way,
Heard his piercing voice so shrill,
Calling out with right good will,
Through a ragged, whiskered jaw,
"Free Press," "Citizen," "Le Taw."[[2]]
All the city knows him well,
For he's queer;
Half a century—quite a spell—
He's been here.
Spent his life 'mong paper boys,
Shared their hardships and their joys,
Winter blast and springtime thaw,
Calling "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."
Copper Johnny is his name,
Poor old chap;
He's a cripple with a cane
And a pack.
Selling papers is his trade,
Makes a living without aid,
Never broke but music's law,
Crying "Journal," "Press," "Le Taw."