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E. S. Q.

I wonder what these letters mean!
I wonder if they show
That some are stationed high in life,
And some are standing low!
If yea, I wonder which they mark;
I cannot tell—can you?
Whether 'tis credit or a shame
To be an E-S-Q?

'Tis true that in another land,
They do a meaning own,
And note the faintest ray that's shot
From the scintillant throne;
But, sending for a boot-black here,
I cannot tell—can you?
Why I should, would, could, ought to write—
Sam Jonson, E-S-Q?

And, writing to a man of parts,
Whose claims to honor flow
From mighty deeds or stirring words,
What do the letters show?
That they will lustre cast on him,
I cannot think—can you?
We nothing add, sir, though we write
Addendum, E-S-Q.

But, we must some distinction make!
Indeed? 'Tis very right;
But quite as easy for the blind
To tell the day from night.
What court shall sit upon the claims?
I would not dare—would you?
Say who shall be a simple Man,
And who an E-S-Q?

If thou would'st challenge men's respect,
So labor that thy name
May glisten with an inborn light
Upon the scroll of fame.
Our very schoolboys, sir, would laugh
(Rightly, I think—don't you?)
O'er « commentaries written by J. Cæsar, E-S-Q. »

I greatly wonder men of rank,
And men of judgment, too,
Don't drop for ever, and at once,
The senseless E-S-Q.
See, gentlemen, we nameless folk
Are aping after you;
I wonder that you still will use
Plebeian, E-S-Q.

I'm no Reformer; would not choose
To make myself a mark
For Custom's arrows, while her curs
In stupid chorus bark.
Follow the fashion, if you please,
It may be meet for you;
But let me shoot for rarer game
Than common E-S-Q.

—Eugene H. Munday.