#AmericanWriters
'Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe, And she goeth upon the spree, And red are cheeks of the bystande… For her acts are light and free. In a seven-ounce costume
Dudley, great placeman, man of mar… Worthy of honor from a feeble pen Blunted in service of all true, go… You serve the Lord-in courses, _t… Au, naturel,_ as well as _a la Ni…
I ne’er could be entirely fond Of any maiden who’s a blonde, And no brunette that e’er I saw Had charms my heart’s whole warmth to draw.
That land full surely hastens to i… Where public sycophants in homage… The populace to flatter, and repea… The doubled echoes of its loud con… Lowly their attitude but high thei…
Two villains of the highest rank Set out one night to rob a bank. They found the building, looked it… Each window noted, tried each door… Scanned carefully the lidded hole
Each to his taste: some men prefer… At mystery, as others at piquet. Some sit in mystic meditation; som… Parade the street with tambourine… One studies to decipher ancient lo…
In fair Yosemite, that den of thi… Wherein the minions of the moon di… The travelers’ purses, lo! the De… His larger share as leader still d… El Capitan, foreseeing that _his_…
The Church’s compass, if you plea… Has two or three (or more) degrees Of variation; And many a soul has gone to grief On this or that or t’other reef
The Swan of Avon died-the Swan Of Sacramento’ll soon be gone; And when his death-song he shall c… Stand back, or it will kill you to…
The lily cranks, the lily cranks, The loppy, loony lasses! They multiply in rising ranks To execute their solemn pranks, They moon along in masses.
So, Parson Stebbins, you’ve relea… To say that here, and here, we pre… 'Tis a great thing an editor to sk… And hang his faulty pelt upon a na… (If over-eared, it has, at least,…
O Reverend Ravlin, once with soun… You shook the bloody banner of you… Urged all the fiery boycotters afi… And swore you’d rather follow them… Alas, how brief the time, how grea…
False to his art and to the high c… God laid upon him, Markham’s rebe… Beats all in vain the harp he touc… It yields a jingle and it yields n… No more the strings beneath his fi…
As in a dream, strange epitaphs I… Inscribed on yet unquarried stone, Where wither flowers yet unstrown The Campo Santo of the time to be…
Nay, Peter Robertson, 'tis not fo… To blubber o’er Max Taubles for h… By Heaven! my hearty, if you only… How better is a grave-worm in the… Than brains like yours-how far mor…