University of Virginia Library


99

A FEW LINES TO THE DEVIL, AND A WORD TO THE READER.

Justly abhorred as thou shouldst be,
Yet sometimes it appears to me
The long, black list ascribed to thee
Is hardly fair;
Still granting thee, as all agree,
The lion's share.
How oft thy attributes are taken
By men with gusts of temper shaken,
Men riotous, men God-forsaken,
Who never think
How you some day will smoke their bacon
Black as this ink!
A loafer's bowels give him pain,—
“Ache like the devil,” he'll complain;
Whatever's sad, or bad, or vain—
All “like the devil”;
Thou hast been, and wilt aye remain
The old All Evil.
Thou'rt made most strangely to compare
To what is foul and what is fair;
To heat, to cold, to what is rare
As crows not black;
To what is thick as is the hair
On Bose's back.
Art thou a spirit or a body?
Dost water drink, or purchase toddy?
Dost of State Agent buy? O Lo'ddy!
They say I must;
Our towns grow thirsty as old Roddy
Mac Dry-as-dust.

100

If thou'rt a body, I don't see
How comes thy great ubiquity.
E'en if a spirit, how can be
Thy mighty sway?
A higher Power is over thee
All must obey.
But I will waive all speculation
And take the old received narration
That you “still live” and have a station
Deep down below,
And where I pray, in contemplation,
Never to go.
Your title Mammon, God of Gold,
Is fittest name of all you hold;
It gives a clew, so we unfold
To light of day
The secret of your powers untold
And general sway.
My observation this discloses:—
A man may be as “meek as Moses,”
As sweet with virtues as the roses
In bonnie June,
Yet people pass him with their noses
Like the new moon.
He may a humble follower be
Of Him who died on Calvary,
And yet his brethren may agree,
With “sweet accord,”
He's no “great shakes” to them, you see,
But to the Lord.
And would you know the reason why?
You know it better now than I;

101

But some this letter may espy
Who're no such scholars.
To them four words will make reply:
He lacks the dollars.
But while men feign great consequence,
Great virtue, philanthropic sense,
I think you never make pretence
To aught but evil,
Or to be else than the intense
And downright Devil.
That's candid, surely; and if ever
Mankind would grow more good and clever,
They must their own deceit dissever,
And look within;
And at thy door, in future, never
Lay every sin.
Don't take the trouble to reply
To this epistle. Know that I
Have not Job's patience, but should die
With best of nursing,
And fear that potsherd come to try,
There might be cursing.
Yet one can't tell what he might do;
Surprise themselves and others, too;
Folks will sometimes—that's very true—
For once be clever!
Let me alone and I will you,
Henceforth forever.
And thou who read'st, don't think me wrong
To beat this diabolic gong;

102

I know it is no polished song
Where dactyls gleam;
The language, too, is something strong,
But how's the theme?
 

Rejoicing in the honor of being just appointed Town Agent.