THE UNPARDONABLE SIN.

I reckon that ye never knew,

That dandy slugger, Tom Carew,

He had a touch as light an’ free

As that of any honey-bee;

But where it lit there was n't much

To jestify another touch.

O, what a Sunday-school it was

To watch him puttin’ up his paws

An’ roominate upon their heft —

Particular his holy left!

Tom was my style — that's all I say;

Some others may be equal gay.

What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure —

He's dead — which make his fate obscure.

I only started in to clear

One vital p'int in his career,

Which is to say — afore he died

He soiled his erming mighty snide.

Ye see he took to politics

And learnt them statesmen-fellers’ tricks;

Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent,

Just like he was the President;

Went to the Legislator; spoke

Right out agin the British yoke —

But that was right. He let his hair

Grow long to qualify for Mayor,

An’ once or twice he poked his snoot

In Congress like a low galoot!

It had to come — no gent can hope

To wrastle God agin the rope.

Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead,

I s'pose it ought n't to be said,

For sech inikities as flow

From politics ai n't fit to know;

But, if you think it's actin’ white

To tell it — Thomas throwed a fight!