A Family,

A Family.
400.1

Whenever a man’s to be shot in the back.
And the shooter escape by a hypocrite’s tack:
When a bully is wanted to stand in the dark
And without word or warning, to make for his mark
One unsuspecting, unknowing, unarmed,
All prepared in advance, so the shooter’s unharmed,
No need to look for, nor with other men deal.
Just have at the scene the brave Trustun Beale.

When gallantry’s calling and chivalry roused,
And the unthinking victim with family is housed;
With a lie on his lips and a bow to deceive,
With a friend of his ilk all chance to relieve,
Comes the bold, errant knight to the home in repose,
His purpose concealed, for only he knows
A shot in the back, the assassin’s no fear,
For the chivalrous Truxtun stands there in the rear.

Shoot without fear, stab without fright,
Be sure you don’t give half a chance for a fight,
Strike from behind, your victim’s head turned,
Give him no show, lest a blow he returned.
Fear not for the future. The law’s for the poor,
Judges are cheap, purchased juries are sure.
Your fate’s not in doubt, nor endangered your weal,
Because at your back stands brave Truxtun Beale.

So all the world over, remember the tale,
This avenger of honor responds to each wail;
No Bayard so brave, none with him to compare,
He answers the call of the wild everywhere.
Each poor millionaire with trouble involved
May have a defense by this Truxtun evolved.
So whenever a man’s to be shot in the back,
And the shooter escape by a hypocrite’s tack,
Safe may he be, secure he may feel,
At the scene of the shooting is brave Truxtun Beale.

The long-haired poet, the dreamer, the well-meaning educated idiot,
who roams the drawing rooms of the world’s
capitals, is the irresponsible who furnishes the romantic feature to the anarch’s dream.
There is large variety of him, and our own
Edwin Markham is one of these.
Feted and pam- pered by the slobbering aristocrats who affect a sympathy for
the down-trodden, he has found time, in the surroundings of
pink boudoirs, to write an extraordinary poem and to dedicate
the same to Maxim Gorky. It is a rhythmical song, swinging
along in fine style and as full of irresponsible suggestion as a
bottle of high-proof whisky. The title to the poem is “Russia
Arise!” and one of the finest stanzas reads as follows:

“Because the gibbet and the chain
Scatter thy blood, a sacred rain;
Because thou hast a soul all fire
Under the hoof-marks and the mire;
Because thou hast a dream burned white
By many sorrows of the night;
Because thy grief has paid the price.
Paid it in tears and paid it thrice
Therefore all great souls surge to thee,
The blown white billows of one sea;
Therefore thy spirit shall prevail,
For in thy failure God shall fail!”