To The Judge

_A Voice From the Interior of Old Hoop-Pole Township_ Friend of my earliest youth, Can't you arrange to come down And visit a fellow out here in the woods-- Out of the dust of the town? Can't you forget you're a Judge And put by your dolorous frown And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend-- Can't you arrange to come down? Can't you forget for a while The arguments prosy and drear,-- To lean at full-length in indefinite rest In the lap of the greenery here? Can't you kick over 'the Bench,' And 'husk' yourself out of your gown To dangle your legs where the fishing is good-- Can't you arrange to come down? Bah! for your office of State! And bah! for its technical lore! What does our President, high in his chair, But wish himself low as before! Pick between peasant and king,-- Poke your bald head through a crown Or shadow it here with the laurels of Spring!-- Can't you arrange to come down? 'Judge it' out _here_, if you will,-- The birds are in session by dawn; You can draw, not _complaints_, but a sketch of the hill And a breath that your betters have drawn; You can open your heart, like a case, To a jury of kine, white and brown, And their verdict of 'Moo' will just satisfy you!-- Can't you arrange to come down? Can't you arrange it, old Pard?-- Pigeonhole Blackstone and Kent!-- Here we have 'Breitmann,' and Ward, Twain, Burdette, Nye, and content! Can't you forget you're a Judge And put by your dolorous frown And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend-- Can't you arrange to come down?