THE PASSING OF AN AUTO-CRAT.

The Auto-crat-oh, think of that!-he went a fearful pace;
He did not smile, through all the wholehe had a mobile face.
He took no interest in man, yet sought the human race.

The Auto-crat-oh, think of that!-I never saw him laugh;
In wreckage strowed along the road he wrote his auto-graph.
A horrid smell were suited well to be his epitaph.

The Auto-crat-oh, think of that!-upon his dying day
The only word I overheard he hadn’t auto say.
‘Twas gasolene that brought about his sad auto-da-fe.

The Auto-crat-oh, think of that!-his end was swift and sharp,
I hope it hurt ’twas his dessert-though I don’t wish to carp;
Perhaps he’s in a sweeter land and plays an auto-harp.
-Burges Johnson.