AFTER WALT WHITMAN

Spontaneous Us! O my Camarados! I have no delicatesse as a diplomat, but I go blind on Libertad! Give me the flap-flap of the soaring Eagle's pinions! Give me the tail of the British lion tied in a knot inextricable, not to be solved anyhow! Give me a standing army (I say "give me," because just at present we want one badly, armies being often useful in time of war). I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet built almost immediately); I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various nationalities, not necessarily American; I see them sling the slug and chew the plug; I hear the drum begin to hum; Both the above rhymes are purely accidental, and contrary to my principles. We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of able-bodied British tars! I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore; I see Henry Irving dead sick and declining to play Corporal Brewster; Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell!
I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner; I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and thoughtful States; I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly Van Diemen's Land, Gibraltar, and Stratford-on-Avon; Briefly, I see creation whipped! O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the pension-list); I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt, Chauncey M. Depew, O'Donovan Rossa, and the late Colonel Monroe; I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom, a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers, and a gin-sling! Good old Eagle! Owen Seaman.

TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS AND A HERRICKOSE VEIN

When as to shoot my Julia goes,
Then, then (methinks), how bravely shows
That rare arrangement of her clothes!
So shod as when the Huntress Maid
With thumping buskin bruised the glade,
She moveth, making earth afraid.
Against the sting of random chaff
Her leathern gaiters circle half
The arduous crescent of her calf.
Unto th' occasion timely fit,
My love's attire doth show her wit,
And of her legs a little bit.

Sorely it sticketh in my throat,
She having nowhere to bestow't
To name the absent petticoat.
In lieu whereof a wanton pair
Of knickerbockers she doth wear,
Full windy and with space to spare.
Enlargèd by the bellying breeze,
Lord! how they playfully do ease
The urgent knocking of her knees!
Lengthways curtailèd to her taste
A tunic circumvents her waist,
And soothly it is passing chaste.
Upon her head she hath a gear
Even such as wights of ruddy cheer
Do use in stalking of the deer.
Haply her truant tresses mock
Some coronal of shapelier block,
To wit, the bounding billy-cock.
Withal she hath a loaded gun,
Whereat the pheasants, as they run,
Do make a fair diversiòn.
For very awe, if so she shoots,
My hair upriseth from the roots,
And lo! I tremble in my boots!
Owen Seaman.

FAREWELL

PROVOKED BY CALVERLEY'S "FOREVER"

"Farewell!" Another gloomy word
As ever into language crept.
'Tis often written, never heard,
Except

In playhouse. Ere the hero flits—
In handcuffs—from our pitying view.
"Farewell!" he murmurs, then exits
R. U.
"Farewell" is much too sighful for
An age that has not time to sigh.
We say, "I'll see you later," or
"Good by!"
When, warned by chanticleer, you go
From her to whom you owe devoir,
"Say not 'good by,'" she laughs, "but
'Au Revoir!'"
Thus from the garden are you sped;
And Juliet were the first to tell
You, you were silly if you said
"Farewell!"
"Farewell," meant long ago, before
It crept, tear-spattered, into song,
"Safe voyage!" "Pleasant journey!" or
"So long!"
But gone its cheery, old-time ring;
The poets made it rhyme with knell—
Joined it became a dismal thing—
"Farewell!"
"Farewell!" into the lover's soul
You see Fate plunge the fatal iron.
All poets use it. It's the whole
Of Byron.
"I only feel—farewell!" said he;
And always fearful was the telling—
Lord Byron was eternally
Farewelling.

"Farewell!" A dismal word, 'tis true
(And why not tell the truth about it!);
But what on earth would poets do
Without it?
Bert Leston Taylor.