He was prejudiced, that _Mark_, a Eur[=o]pian, in the dark,
Concernin' of our Glorious Institutions.
_He_ paint our Bird o' Freedom? Lots have tried, but we don't heed 'em;
And revolvin' years bring curus retributions.
_We_ don't care a brass farden! DICKENS had to beg our pardon,
And that MAX O'RELL will eat his words one day, Sir!
The real Yankee Eagle is as strong-winged as a Sea-gull,
With a beak as sharp as any Sheffield razor.
Still, he's been a trifle pippy, and has looked a little chippy--
By the mighty Mississippi yes, Sir!--lately.
Kinder moulty as to feathers, as though blizzards and bad weathers
Of every blamed big sort had tried him greatly.
Good Jee-rusulum! No wonder! for great snakes and buttered thunder!
Our blasts have been fair busters for his pinions.
In the words of Mister _Chollop_, all creation he can wallop,--
But tornaders _have_ been sweepin' his dominions!
As to that _Mark Tapley's_ twaddle, why the Peacock ain't the model,
_Nor_ the Bantam, _nor_ the Ostrich, I'd be pickin'
For the finest fowl in Natur. Better dub him Alligator,
A Whangdoodle, or a Cincinnati Chicken!
Like the Ph[oe]nix he's immortal, and he soars to the Sun's portal,
But--the Ph[oe]nix has sick spells, like lesser poultry.
Wants fresh fixing up, I reckon, then the dawn once more he'll beckon,
And sprint--from Memnon's statue to Fort Moultrie.
BULL ain't an Eagle builder, but he makes a bully gilder,
And I reckon, guess, and calc'late I'll jest try him.
If I git from the old fellow a good coat of British Yellow--
A sort o' paint J. B. keeps always by him--
My Bird o' Freedom soaring, where the blizzards are a roaring,
And the cloud-bursts are out-pouring, will jest flicker
Real rollicking and regal, like a genu-ine Golden Eagle.--
_Wal!--you've fixed him real smart, JOHN! Let us liquor!_
* * * * *
[Illustration: A LION IN THE PATH?
OH DEAR NO! MERELY THE "_FIRST OPEN DAY_" AFTER A LONG FROST, AND A
TOM-TIT HAS BEEN INCONSIDERATE ENOUGH TO FLY SUDDENLY OUT OF THE FENCE
ON THE WAY TO COVERT!]
* * * * *