such a sudden, lamentable change
All over the East and the West.

"Blades" tough and hearty a week ago,
Who tippled and danced and laughed,
Are "suddenly taken," and some quite low
With an epidemical illness, you know:
"What!--Zounds!--the cholera?" you quiz;--no--no--
The doctors call it the "Draft."

What a blessed thing it were to be old--
A little past "forty-five;"
'Twere better indeed than a purse of gold
At a premium yet unwritten, untold,
For what poor devil that's now "enrolled"
Expects to get off alive?

There's a miracle wrought in the Democrats;
They swore it was murder and sin
To put in the "Niggers," like Kilkenny cats,
To clear the ship of the rebel rats,
But now I notice they swing their hats
And shout to the "Niggers"--"_Go in!_"

THE DEVIL AND THE MONK

Once Satan and a monk went on a "drunk,"
And Satan struck a bargain with the monk,
Whereby the Devil's crew was much increased
By penceless poor and now and then a priest
Who, lacking cunning or good common sense,
Got caught _in flagrante_ and out of pence.
Then in high glee the Devil filled a cup
And drank a brimming bumper to the pope:
Then--"Here's to you," he said, "sober or drunk,
In cowl or corsets, every monk's a punk.
Whate'er they preach unto the common breed,
At heart the priests and I are well agreed.
Justice is blind we see, and deaf and old,
But in her scales can hear the clink of gold.
The convent is a harem in disguise,
And virtue is a fig-leaf for the wise
To hide the naked truth of lust and lecheries.

"And still the toilers feed the pious breed,
And pin their faith upon the bishop's sleeve;
Hungry for hope they gulp a moldy creed
And dine on faith. 'Tis easier to believe
An old-time fiction than to wear a tooth
In gnawing bones to reach the marrow truth.
Priests murder Truth and with her gory ghost
They frighten fools and give the rogues a roast
Until without or pounds or pence or price--
Free as the fabled wine of paradise--
They furnish priestly plates with buttered toast.
Your priests of superstition stalk the land
With Jacob's winning voice and Esau's hand;
Sinners to hell and saints to heaven they call,
And eat the fattest fodder in the stall.
They, versed in dead rituals in dead language deep,
Talk Greek to th' _grex_ and Latin to their sheep,
And feed their flocks a flood of cant and college
For every drop of sense or useful knowledge."

"I beg your pardon," softly said the monk,