“Good morning,” said Garfield, extending his hand,
To Mr. Parnell in the Heavenly Land.
“Good morning, good morning,” said Mr. Parnell;
“I hope (though ’tis needless to ask) you are well.
How sweetly that chorus of cherubim sings!
Pray how do you manage these cumbersome wings?
This halo—I dare say I’m terribly green,
But somehow I can’t make it hold my dudheen.
This harp is all right, but the shamrock I miss,
And—O, by the way, in this region of bliss
I trust that the rascally schemer who wrote
The Morey epistle, which lost you the vote
Electoral, I am not likely to meet?”
Then Garfield, his eyes on the cloud at his feet,
Burned in the cheeks with a fervor divine
That conquered his halo’s inferior shine;
Then said, with a look that was level and far:
“I fear (to be honest and frank) that you are.
The person who wrote that mysterious, queer,
Bad letter is here—ah, exceedingly here.”
And he smiled in an infantile sort of a way,
Like a man with a qualm, and went on to say:
“I’m happy to meet you. What news from below?
Did it look when you left there as if they would show
Who wrote, with a villainous purpose in view,
The peppery letters imputed to you?”
Said Mr. Parnell: “Yes, it did, I must say—
In fact, that’s the reason I hastened away.”
Then they sang a psalm, and they sang so well
That Murchison heard it while sobbing in Hell.