 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
VALEDICTORY
They tell me, Deacon Fitch, that you are out:
The Bulletin being sold, you couldn't buy it.
My, my! what could you, man, have been about
These many years of editoring? Why, it
Seems hardly credible that you have made
So little, working at so good a trade.
The Bulletin being sold, you couldn't buy it.
My, my! what could you, man, have been about
These many years of editoring? Why, it
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So little, working at so good a trade.
Why, bless you! there is Mike de Young, a man—
At least a—well, it doesn't greatly matter;
He's famous from the water-front to San
Juan Smith street as less good than you, though fatter.
He's rich! Among the things he's proved to own
Are half a million dollars and Frank Stone.
At least a—well, it doesn't greatly matter;
He's famous from the water-front to San
Juan Smith street as less good than you, though fatter.
He's rich! Among the things he's proved to own
Are half a million dollars and Frank Stone.
So rich is he that many persons swear
He ought as Senator to be elected.
He's rich enough to want the earth and air,
Although not rich enough to be respected.
You say that's nothing to the purpose. True,
I meant to sing about, not him, but you.
He ought as Senator to be elected.
He's rich enough to want the earth and air,
Although not rich enough to be respected.
You say that's nothing to the purpose. True,
I meant to sing about, not him, but you.
You're hardly worth it, maybe: he who scorns
His opportunities of gain by mounting,
And then dismounting, other person's corns
Discredits journalism. There's no accounting
For tastes; no doubt you think yourself as good
As if in mail of black you proudly stood.
His opportunities of gain by mounting,
And then dismounting, other person's corns
Discredits journalism. There's no accounting
For tastes; no doubt you think yourself as good
As if in mail of black you proudly stood.
I do not think you so—the rich are best.
They've leisure, they explain, for moral culture.
(What fowl so meditative on the nest—
So introspective as the glutted vulture?)
“Our Mike” is noble, I'm persuaded—nay,
He'll tell you so himself ten times a day.
They've leisure, they explain, for moral culture.
(What fowl so meditative on the nest—
So introspective as the glutted vulture?)
“Our Mike” is noble, I'm persuaded—nay,
He'll tell you so himself ten times a day.
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He will slip in: I can't at all prevent
His reasonless and seasonless intrusion.
I wish that, like Mo. Gunst, the wretch “had went.”
Come, Deacon, let us drink to his confusion.
On second thoughts, I can't afford, I think—
No more can you—to buy befitting drink.
His reasonless and seasonless intrusion.
I wish that, like Mo. Gunst, the wretch “had went.”
Come, Deacon, let us drink to his confusion.
On second thoughts, I can't afford, I think—
No more can you—to buy befitting drink.
Ah, well, in all these long, contentious years
'Tis many an ill turn we've done each other.
You ne'er could altogether stay your sneers,
Nor I regard you as an elder brother.
You every way invited my dislike,
Excepting by comparison with Mike.
'Tis many an ill turn we've done each other.
You ne'er could altogether stay your sneers,
Nor I regard you as an elder brother.
You every way invited my dislike,
Excepting by comparison with Mike.
The cause of quarrel (now at end of war
The hatchet we'll inter and marble-slab it)
Was plain to either adversary, for
'Twas very simple, though sufficient: Habit.
If there was aught behind I know not—that
Explains full twenty years of dog-and-cat.
The hatchet we'll inter and marble-slab it)
Was plain to either adversary, for
'Twas very simple, though sufficient: Habit.
If there was aught behind I know not—that
Explains full twenty years of dog-and-cat.
Now, as you leave the field, let me be frank:
Excepting various errors of the noddle,
Such as made talk of “caving down the bank,”
And lately a bad flow of Sandlot twaddle,
And always a bat's blindness to my worth,
Your record's clean and laudable from birth.
Excepting various errors of the noddle,
Such as made talk of “caving down the bank,”
And lately a bad flow of Sandlot twaddle,
And always a bat's blindness to my worth,
Your record's clean and laudable from birth.
Fitch, here's my hand; my heart is in it, too.
(That organ's somewhat out of shape, however,
From use in football.) Really, 'twould not do
Our long relation sullenly to sever.
Soon comes the silence. May we then be laid
Where Mike's tall monument bestows its shade!
(That organ's somewhat out of shape, however,
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Our long relation sullenly to sever.
Soon comes the silence. May we then be laid
Where Mike's tall monument bestows its shade!
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |