OF AMBROSE BIERCE 199
"Why, yet," said I, "with all your blessings fine
(And Heaven forbid that I should speak them ill)
I'm poor and ill and sorrowful. Ye shine
With more of splendor than of heat: for still,
Although my will is warm, my bones are chill."
"Then warm you with enthusiasm's blaze—
Fortune waits not on toil," they cried; "O then,
Join the wild chorus clamoring our praise—
Throw up your beaver and throw down your pen!"
"Begone!" I shouted. They bewent, a-smirking,
And I awakening, fell straight a-working.
A "MASS" MEETING
It was a solemn rite as e'er
Was seen by mortal man.
The celebrants, the people there.
Were all Republican.
There Estee bent his grizzled head.
And General Dimond, too.
And one—'twas Reddick, some one said
Though no one clearly knew.
I saw the priest, white-robed and tall
(Assistant, Father Stow)—
He was the pious man men call
Dan Burns of Mexico.
