"O mercy!" howled Sir Ball—"those cars, that road, I know full well—
And O I prefer—I much prefer—to be taken at once to hell!"
"Don't quibble on names," Sir Public said ; and Sir Ball he gasped—"I swear!
My sins are great, but my punishment is more than I can bear!"
XII.
There are waifs of bitter and shapeless fog on the barren Jersey shore;
They were once that cloud of witnesses who all so roundly swore.
There's a couple of foolish advocates from their foul enchantment freed;
They are Morse and Marsh, and they keep them close arid wear the mourner's weed.
There's a bloody-eyed visage of yellow bile that glares distort with pain,
Through the rattling glass on the many that pass the jumping, joggling train;
The saunterer overtaking the cars, on his patron saint doth call,
And walks till he leaves them far behind; 'tis the visage of poor Sir Ball.
There's a fiend who ponders a similar line for the worst that with him dwell;
It is the Very Devil Himself—in sooth, he ponders well.
There's a soul who bends, as Issachar bent, between two loads of wrong—
New Jersey's huge monopoly and such as Ball their song;
He soothes his soul with minstrels' lyres, and waits the better day;
It is the good Sir Public, the gentle old man gray.
There's a red-cross knight who cares not what the Boobies say or do;
He basks in good Sir Public's smile; 'tis bold Sir Doubleyou.
There's a noble lady fortressed now in good Sir Public's tower;
The air retains the gentle songs that flow from out her bower;
'Tis the Lady Florence Percy—may her garlands never fall!
God save ye, gallant gentlemen, and lovely ladies all!
