AD CATTONUM

I know not, Mr. Catton, who you are,

Nor very clearly why; but you go far

To show that you are many things beside

A Chilean Consul with a tempting hide;

But what they are I hardly could explain

Without afflicting you with mental pain.

Your name (gods! what a name the muse to woo—

Suggesting cats, and hinting kittens, too!)

Points to an origin—perhaps Maltese,

Perhaps Angoran—where the wicked cease

From fiddling, and the animals that grow

The strings that groan to the tormenting bow

Live undespoiled of their insides, resigned

To give their name and nature to mankind.

With Chilean birth your name but poorly tallies;

The test is—Did you ever sell tamales?

It matters very little, though, my boy,

If you're from Chile or from Illinois;

You can't, because you serve a foreign land,

Spit with impunity on ours, expand,

Cock-turkeywise, and strut with blind conceit,

All heedless of the hearts beneath your feet,

Fling falsehoods as a sower scatters grain

And, for security, invoke disdain.

Sir, there are laws that men of sense observe,

No matter whence they come nor whom they serve—

The laws of courtesy; and these forbid

You to malign, as recently you did,

As servant of another State, a State

Wherein your duties all are concentrate;

Branding its Ministers as rogues—in short,

Inviting cuffs as suitable retort.

Chileno or American, 'tis one—

Of any land a citizen, or none—

If like a new Thersites here you rail,

Loading with libels every western gale,

You'll feel the cudgel on your scurvy hump

Impinging with a salutary thump.

'Twill make you civil or 'twill make you jump!

Загрузка...