Ellsworth American. [volume] (Ellsworth, Me.) 1855-current, 1886-08-12
Jonathan (keditatively) to John Bull.

Say. Johnny, how's your liver, What rare
old chestnut now
Disiurbs your fine digestion and threatens such
row.
For only think that all she fish since Noah rode
the food.
II made of gold, would not be worth drop Of
Christian blood.
Now, honor bright, my cranky friend. aren't
YOU u little flip
With your eallow-hearted Jonathan, TO tackle
every ship
That bears his flag, MS If she were private
vagabond
ON evil bent. to steal the clans in your old
herring-pond?
Think twice, my friend, for Haste makes
waste.' saying trite but true.
And here's another better still, Don't bite OF
more than YOU can chew
You always boast of your ''blue blood' and
how YOU love fair play,
And Give me room ft for my size:" that's
what you always say.
I've been a thinking. johnny Bull, how you
have used the world
How little reck you though all else were to
perdition hurrd;
How round your castled bailiwick you love
10 storm and scold;
But notice that you're bravest when you've
got the underhold
Do never ghosts that have escaped from their
dishonored tomb
OF fieshless bones and gibbering speech, stalk
through your haunted room,
When grayeyards yawn. and cofiins squeak
and you crawl into bed,
Why pull the blankets of your feet to hide
you guilty heady
Dost never see another Sphinx, slow from the
storied Nile
Rise DER thee like a horrid SPELL with grim
sardonic smile'
1t haunts thee, for thy stubborn hand once
sent 1t forth TO die,
And since that day you've never told that ap-
partition why.
Like Marley's ghost that loved TO roam through
poor old Scroggs's room.
SO round thy bed viii prowi the dead from
trenches Of khsrtoum;
The nut-brown lads on Lucknow's plains who
crimsoned lndia's streams.
VIII sit beside thee in thy sleep TO poison all
thy dreams.
Bound hand and foo, dear Erin groans beneath
thy iron heel;
There's dcs,h--weat on her lovely face, her
hearts too dead TO feel:
Bound hand and foot. Great God. human
soul in slavsh chains
To satisfy aiyran,'s power. and safe his greed
for gains.
Mock II thou wilt whose breast hath nursed
defenders Of thy flag
When every scupper ran with blood and every
sail rsg;
spurn with towards foot, her from her
own Inheritance.
With wet eyes on her yoiceless harp she pray
eth for deliVerance.
But underneath this flag OF mine, whose every
STAR gem
That caught lis FIRE prenatal from the skies Of
bethlehem,
Are hearts true 10 Erin the magnet TO
the pole;
And when the DAY of reck'ning oomes-May
God have mercy on your soul.
once on time They're sorry for'O a little
while ago
My gir- got discontented and stirred up quite
row;
And il il hadn't been for you thou loud old
bla,herskte,
They wouldn't have staid away so long whats
that; You bet I'm right.
You tried to coax those bonny girls. the fair
est in my band.
To leave the dear old Observation-Disclosures
their father land;
Ny poor old hands were full. John Bull. my
heart was bursting too.
or sure's my name is Jonathan. I'd made II
hot for you.
Your only purpose then, John Bull, (but they
didn't see your game,)
Was to betray their foolish hearts, and brand
their brows with shame;
But. bless the Lord, sworc aud prayed. and
held a steady rein,
And pretty soon they saw their fault and all
came home again.
I'm now al peace with neighbor-folk and with
my children too;
Were on the road TO happiness and bound TO
put'er through,
There's not child in all my house that wants
Their discomfort is satisfied and they've come
home 10 stay.
Maybe brag little, john TO show I'm wide
awake,
But no one seems TO mind my talk. or any UNI
bragg take:
There. no chip on my shoulder. Sir, IS sure as
YOU are born.
Nor rankles In my home-spun heart the least
approach 10 scorn.
I've always used YOU square, my boy. and tha,
YOU can't deLy;
But IL you're aching for fight spose the fur
must fiy:
For every heart beneath my flags 4 reservoir
OF gore.
And well make crimson dye-pot anywhere
along your shore.
Good bye. but stay for just one word; and
here's my honest hand
Don't you hear the tempest frettiDg along
your rocky strands
And in the ofiing yonder the mad waves dssh
on high.
And the lurid tongues Of lightning caress the
yellow sky:
Take care, Il storm is brewing, and when the
tempest breaks,
And the voice of outraged justice in awful
thunder speaks,
God pity the poor sailor, whose fate no one
can tell,
For the ightnings round him blazing will pale
the fires of hell.
A. S. CoNDON.
4 OGDEN, July, 1886.
Salt Lake Daily Tribune.