BRYAN.

BRYAN.
404.1

In ’96 when Bill came forth
To slug the Moneyed Bully,
The nation gasped from south to north;
“Good gracious, ain’t he woolly!”
But since we’ve killed the Silve- Cow
Anr raised the Golden Helfer.
The “Cyclone from Nebraska” now
Is like an April zephyr

Twist William Jennings Bryan then
And William Jennings now
There is a difference, as if
The world had changed, somehow.

For latterly he’s seen some life
And ceased to travel steerage.
He’s taken food with silver knife From plates of British peerage:
He’s tucked beneath his massive chin
Fine napkins, hemmed and crested,
And gone to teas and luncheons in
An evening-coat low-vested.

Twixt William wila
And William mild
The gulf is nearly wierd;
To put it frank. The Argent Plank
Is scarcely to be feared.

He rather thinks the mad-Muck-Rake
Is low and vulgar gammon;
He fears too much reform will make
“The Commoner” too common.
And if you have the hardihood
To mention “socialism.”
Bill whispers: wood “Hush!” and touches
And reads his catechism.

When Bill was keen
For “Sweet Sixteen”
Her hand he archly prared.
But now he tries
Those goo-goo eyes
Upon another maid.

For William’s dreams of power have brought
Some hankerings appalling. world he
And half-way thought round the
He heard his party calling:
“Come back, before the safe insame
Has made another bungle:
Come, prophet, on a special train
To lead us from the jungle!”

Such words of cheer
On William’s car
Like words of promise glisten;
The echo comes
Of distant drums-
And Bill sits up to listen.
-Wallace Irwin.