When Man and Woman had been made,
All but the disposition,
The Devil to the workshop strayed,
And somehow gained admission.
The Master rested from his work,
For this was on a Sunday,
The man was snoring like a Turk,
Content to wait till Monday.
“Too bad!” the Woman cried;
“Oh, why,
Does slumber not benumb me?
A disposition! Oh, I die
To know if ’twill become
me!”
The Adversary said: “No doubt
’Twill be extremely
fine, ma’am,
Though sure ’tis long to be without—
I beg to lend you mine, ma’am.”
The Devil’s disposition when
She’d got, of course
she wore it,
For she’d no disposition then,
Nor now has, to restore it.
TWO ROGUES.
Dim, grim, and silent as a ghost,
The sentry occupied his post,
To all the stirrings of the night
Alert of ear and sharp of sight.
A sudden something—sight or
sound,
About, above, or underground,
He knew not what, nor where—ensued,
Thrilling the sleeping solitude.
The soldier cried: “Halt!
Who goes there?”
The answer came: “Death—in
the air.”
“Advance, Death—give
the countersign,
Or perish if you cross that line!”
To change his tone Death thought it wise—
Reminded him they ’d been allies
Against the Russ, the Frank, the Turk,
In many a bloody bit of work.
“In short,” said he, “in
every weather
We’ve soldiered, you and I, together.”
The sentry would not let him pass.
“Go back,” he growled, “you
tiresome ass—
Go back and rest till the next war,
Nor kill by methods all abhor:
Miasma, famine, filth and vice,
With plagues of locusts, plagues of lice,
Foul food, foul water, and foul gases,
Rank exhalations from morasses.
If you employ such low allies
This business you will vulgarize.
Renouncing then the field of fame
To wallow in a waste of shame,
I’ll prostitute my strength and
lurk
About the country doing work—
These hands to labor I’ll devote,
Nor cut, by Heaven, another throat!”
