Before the telegraphic wires Had ever run from pole to pole, Or telegirls sent telegrams To cheer the weary waiting soul;
When all things went about as slow As terrapins could run on clogs, Was played a game By one whose name
Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. A Philadelphia newspaper Was printed then on Chestnut Street, While’ crost the way, just opposite,
There lived a sufferin’ rival sheet, Whose editors could get no news, Which made’ em cross as starvin’ hogs; The first, I guess,
Had an express Which kind o’ b’ longed to Mister Boggs. But in those days the only news Which reëly opened readers’ eyes,
Was of the New York lottery, And who by luck had got a prize. All other news, for all they cared, Might travel to the orful dogs;
And this they got All piping hot — Though surreptitiously — from Boggs. For of the crew no party knew
That Boggs did any horses own. All sportin’ amputations he Did most concussively disown; For he had serious subtle aims,
His wheels were full of secret cogs,— Well oiled and slow, Yet sure to go, Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.
One mornin’ he, mysteriously, An’ smilin’ quite ironical, Spoke to the other editor, The man who run the Chronicle:
“The Ledger has a hoss express By which your lottery news he flogs.” “Yes, that is true, But what’ s to do?”
Replied the man to Mister Boggs. Then Mister Boggs let down his brows, And with a long deep knowing wink, Said, “Hosses travel mighty fast,
But ther air faster things, I think; An’ kerrier-pidgings, as you know, Kin find their way thro’ storm and fogs: Them air the bugs
To fly like slugs!” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. “And in my glorious natyve land, Which lies acrost the Delaware,
I hev a lot upon the spot,— Just twenty dollars fur a pair. These gentle insects air the things To make the Ledger squeal like hogs;
That is the game To hit’ em lame!” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. The editor looked back again,
And saw him better on his wink. “It is the crisis of our fate — Say, Boggs, what is your style of drink? Step to the bar of Congress Hall;—
We’ ll try your poultry on, by Gogs! An’ let’ em fly Tarnation high!” “Amen!” said Zion Jersey Boggs.
The pidgins came, the pidgins flew, They lit upon the lofty wall; They made their five an’ ninety miles In just about no time at all.
Compared to them, the Ledger team Went just as slow as haulin’ logs. But all was mum, Shut close an’ dum,
By the request of Mister Boggs. Then on the follerin’ Monday he, Lookin’ profounder as he prowled, This son of sin an’ mystery,
Into the Ledger orfice owled. “An’ oh! to think,” he sadly groaned, “That earth should bear setch skalliwogs! Setch all-fired snakes,
And no mistakes!” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. “Why, what is up?” asked Mr. Swain; “It seems you’ ve had some awful shoves.”
“The Chronicle,” his agent cried, “Has went an’ bin an’ bought some doves! Them traitors, wretches, swindlers, cheats, Hev smashed us up like polywogs.
They’ ve knocked, I guess, Our hoss express Higher than any kite,” said Boggs. “Have you no plan?” asked Mister Swain,
“To keep the fellows off our walks?” “I hev,” said Boggs, as grim as death; “What do you think of pidging-horks? For in my glorious natyve land,
Acrost the river,’ mong the frogs, I hev a lot All sharply sot To eat them pidgings up,” said Boggs.
“They are the chosen birds of wrath, They fly like arrers through the air, Or angels sent by orful Death — Jist fifty dollars fur a pair;
An’ cheap to keep, because, you see, Upon the enemy they progs.” “Well, try it on, And now begone!”
Said Mister Swain to Mister Boggs. The autumn morn was bright and fair, Fresh as a rose with recent rain. The pidgins tortled through the air,
But nary one came home again. Some feathers dropped in Chestnut Street, Some bills and claws among the logs: Wipin’ a tear,
“I greatly fear That all’ s not right,” said Mr. Boggs. Into the Chronicle he went, Twice as mysterious as before,
“And hev you heard the orful news?” He whispered as he shet the door. “Oh, I hev come to tell a tale Of crime, which all creation flogs,
Of wretchery And treachery That bangs tarnation sin,” said Boggs. “Them Ledger fellers with their tricks,
Hev slopped clean over crime’ s dark cup. They’ ve bin an’ bought some pidging-horks, And they hev et our pidgings up. Oh, whut is life wuth livin’ fur
When editors behave like hogs? An’ ragin’ crime Makes double time; Oh, darn setch villany!” cried Boggs.
“But hark! bee-hold, to-morrer, thou In deep revenge may dry your tears; I hev a plan, which, you’ ll allow, Beats all-git-out when it eppears.
The ragin’ eagle of the North, The bird which all creation flogs, Will cause them horks To walk ther chalks,
An’ give us grand revenge,” said Boggs. “Them glorious birds of liberty, Them symbols of our country’ s fame, Wild, sarsy, furious, and free,
Indeliably rowdy game; They shall revenge them gentile doves, Our harmless messengers, by Gogs! In which the horks
Hev stuck ther forks,” Cried Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. “For in my glorious natyve land Acrost the river, down below,
I hev a farm, and in the barn Six captyve eagles in a row: One hundred dollars fur a pair; Fetch out the flimsies frum your togs
An’ up on high I’ ll make’ em fly,” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. But this same editor had heard
Some hint or rumour, faint or dim, How Mister Boggs, it was averred, Was coming Paddy over him. An earlier tale of soapy deeds
Then gave his memory startling jogs, And full of wrath Right in his path He went for Zion Jersey Boggs.
“Horses and pidgins — pidgin-horks”— That was enough to raise his Dutch: He saw it all — and also saw The eagle —“Just one bird too much.”
Too mad to mind his shootin’ - iron, And throw good powder to the dogs, He grabbed his chair, And then and there
Corrected Zion Jersey Boggs. After long years had rolled away, And Morse’ s telegraph came in, Still on the facing rival roofs
Two grey old cages could be seen, And young reporters o’ er their drinks Would tell each other — jolly dogs — Of ancient time
What in this rhyme I’ ve told of Zion Jersey Boggs.
Cookies on Poetry Cove