Page:The Green Bag (1889–1914), Volume 01.pdf/465

420 No foreign clime the weed had borne,—
 * The Ancients stood amazed;

The good old State Connecticut
 * The dull brown leaves had raised.

Forbear! no more! we draw the veil
 * Upon the closing scene;

The wrath and oaths of those brave men
 * Were sore and hard, I ween.

In Flanders erst the army swore
 * Most terribly, 't is told;

And sure they had as good excuse,
 * Our martial Ancients bold.

And now begins the legal part;
 * The Budget poised its pen,

To right, within its columns straight,
 * The wrongs of these brave men.

A scurvy tale it did unfold;
 * Right hard it hit, I ween:

Such villain feast, cigars and wine,
 * Good Christians ne'er had seen.

It further wrote, in good set terms,
 * That e'en barbarian wight,

Though pressed with hunger or with thirst,
 * Such nauseous fare would slight.

Sore angered was the cater-man;
 * Straight brought his suit in tort,

Against the lib'lous Budget staff,
 * In the Superior Court.

But failing to allege or prove
 * Aught special damage then,

His suit did lose, before those twelve
 * Stanch, sturdy Suffolk men.

Swift to the Court Supreme he hied,
 * And strong did urge his woe;

It helped him naught, the Court Supreme
 * Sustained the Court below.

Then let us sing with mighty voice,
 * Long live the S. J. C.!

Long live the freedom of the Press
 * Through all eternity!

No longer need we eat the fare,
 * With indigestion fraught,

Which any caitiff caterer
 * Upon the board has brought.

Or if perchance the "perilous stuff"
 * Incautious we ingest,

In good set terms we may express
 * The wrath within our breast.

Ah! mighty is the trusty sword,
 * Wielded in bloody fight;

But mightier far the good goose-quill,
 * Each grievous wrong to right!