It is pleasant to think, as I’m w… A-drying along my paper, That a monument fine will surely b… When death has extinguished my tap… From each rhyming scribe of the jo…

Dimly apparent, through the gloom Of Market-street’s opaque simoom, A queue of people, parti-sexed, Awaiting the command of ‘Next!’ A sidewalk booth, a dingy sign:

I saw the devil-he was working fre… A customs-house he builded by the… ‘Why do you this?’ The devil rais… 'Churches and courts I’ve built e…

Oh, Marcus D. Boruck, me hearty, I sympathize wid ye, poor lad! A man that’s shot out of his party Is mighty onlucky, bedad! An’ the sowl o’ that man is sad.

God dreamed-the suns sprang flamin… And sailing worlds with many a ven… He woke-His smile alone illumined…

The cur foretells the knell of par… The loafing herd winds slowly o’er… The wise man homewards plods; I o… To fiddle-faddle in a minor key.

‘Authority, authority!’ they shout Whose minds, not large enough to h… Some chance opinion ever entertain… By dogma billeted upon their brain… ‘Ha!’ they exclaim with choreatic…

Och! Father McGlynn, Ye appear to be in Fer a bit of a bout wid the Pope; An’ there’s divil a doubt But he’s knockin’ ye out

There was a cranky Governor His name it wasn’t Waterman. For office he was hotter than The love of any lover, nor Was Boruck’s threat of aiding him

'Twas a serious person with locks… And a figure like a crescent; His gravity, clearly, had come to… But his smile was evanescent. He stood and conversed with a neig…

Big Smith is an Oakland School B… And he looks as good as ever he ca… And he’s such a cold and a chaste… That snowflakes all are his kin an… Wherever his eye he chances to thr…

‘I never yet exactly could determi… Just how it is that the judicial e… Is kept so safely from predacious… ‘It is not so, my friend: though i… ’Tis kept in camphor, and you ofte…

‘Tis Master Fitch, the editor; He takes an holiday. Now wherefore, venerable sir, So resolutely gay? He lifts his head, he laughs aloud…

Goddess of Liberty! O thou Whose tearless eyes behold the cha… And look unmoved upon the slain, Eternal peace upon thy brow,- Before thy shrine the races press,

An 'actors’ cemetery’! Sure The devil never tires Of planning places to procure The sticks to feed his fires.