His caw is a cackle, his eye is di… And he mopes all day on the lowest… Not a word says he, but he snaps h… And twitches his palsied head, as… The ultimate plume of his pride an…

Father! whose hard and cruel law Is part of thy compassion’s plan, Thy works presumptuously we scan For what the prophets say they saw… Unbidden still the awful slope

Down in Southern Arizona where th… And the ‘Mescalero,’ gifted with… Every hour renounces one of them b… The assassinating wassail that has… Where the enterprising dealer in…

Ben Bulger was a silver man, Though not a mine had he: He thought it were a noble plan To make the coinage free. 'There hain’t for years been sech…

She stood at the ticket-seller’s Serenely removing her glove, While hundreds of strugglers and y… And some that were good at a shove… Were clustered behind her like bat…

As vicious women think all men are… And shrew-bound gentlemen discours… As reeling drunkards judge the wor… And idlers swear employers ne’er g… Thieves that the constable stole a…

Beneath my window twilight made Familiar mysteries of shade. Faint voices from the darkening do… Were calling vaguely to the town. Intent upon a low, far gleam

Hail, peerless Pun! thou last and… Most rare and excellent bequest Of dying idiot to the wit He died of, rat-like, in a pit! Thyself disguised, in many a way

Fear not in any tongue to call Upon the Lord-He’s skilled in all… But if He answereth my plea He speaketh one unknown to me.

Now Lonergan appears upon the boa… And Truth and Error sheathe their… No more in wordy warfare to engage… The commentators bow before the st… And bookworms, militant for ages p…

I step from the door with a shiver (This fog is uncommonly cold) And ask myself: What did I give h… The maiden a trifle gone-old, With the head of gray hair that wa…

Here lies Greer Harrison, a well… So small a tenant of so big a hous… He joyed in fighting with his eyes… Prudently pendent from a peaceful… And loved to loll on the Parnassi…

'Let Glory’s sons manipulate The tiller of the Ship of State. Be mine the humble, useful toil To work the tiller of the soil.'

It was a bruised and battered chap The victim of some dire mishap, Who sat upon a rock and spent His breath in this ungay lament: 'Some wars-I’ve frequent heard of…

For Gladstone’s portrait five tho… Were paid, 't is said, to Sir Joh… I cannot help thinking that such f… Transcended reason’s uttermost bou… For it seems to me uncommonly quee…