UNARMED

Saint Peter sat at the jasper gate,

When Stephen M. White arrived in state.

“Admit me.” “With pleasure,” Peter said,

Pleased to observe that the man was dead;

“That's what I'm here for. Kindly show

Your ticket, my lord, and in you go.”

White stared in blank surprise. Said he

“I run this place — just turn that key.”

“Yes?” said the Saint; and Stephen heard

With pain the inflection of that word.

But, mastering his emotion, he

Remarked: “My friend, you're too d —— free;

“I'm Stephen M., by thunder, White!”

And, “Yes?” the guardian said, with quite

The self-same irritating stress

Distinguishing his former yes.

And still demurely as a mouse

He twirled the key to that Upper House.

Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain

Admittance to those halls to gain,

Said, neighborly: “Pray tell me. Pete,

Does any one contest my seat?”

The Saint replied: “Nay, nay, not so;

But you voted always wrong below:

“Whate'er the question, clear and high

You're voice rang:‘ I,’‘ I,’ ever‘ I.’”

Now indignation fired the heart

Of that insulted immortal part.

“Die, wretch!” he cried, with blanching lip,

And made a motion to his hip,

With purpose murderous and hearty,

To draw the Democratic party!

He felt his fingers vainly slide

Upon his unappareled hide

( The dead arise from their “silent tents”

But not their late habiliments )

Then wailed — the briefest of his speeches:

“I've left it in my other breeches!”