(This famous tree is spelled either Nax or Nacks. I use both
ways.—The Author.

"The Bottomless pit
          Yawns ever forever.
The blasphemous wit
          Of th' Blacksmith can never
Extract from the pit
          The damned lost forever."

I entered the valley,
          Felt nil, truly ill.
('Twas no time to dally.)
          I tried hard to still
My heart. I choked—bally!
          I swallowed the pill.

Look, see the sharp axe
Swing out as it cracks
The Elm called Nax.

The Angel of light
          Glided through the dark chasm,
Then wended its flight
          To th' cave choked with wassum.
The twilight though slight,
          Brought on a fierce spasm.

The bright Angel feels
          A sort of a flickety
Shock through the heels.
          Wheels scrape a clickety
Knock. See the keels
          Decidedly rickety.

The bright Angel cracks
          To slivers the branch
Of th' Elm called Nacks.
          'Tis on my own ranch.
My classic lip smacks
Saying, "Dicky, be stanch."

"Dear Angel, oh pray,
          Please tell me, oh do,
The Pilgrim dead, say—
          The souls of those few
Friends dead—oh allay
          My sad fears, some clue.
What are they doing?
Hear that cat mewing,
          Sprite of the air,
          How do they fare? "

The Angel spoke brightly,
          Extending one wing
Which drew his robe tightly.
          Commencing to sing,
He yodels quite sprightly
And flings out his sling.
          Then grabs my ear lightly,
Oh, oh, what a sting!

My hearing not queering,
          I turn very pale.
Though all of my gearing
          In order, I quail.
My weedy brain clearing,
          I hear a sad tale.

THE REVELATION

"The Clergyman, base,
          Alas he doth dwell
In a very hot place,
          No salubrious dell.
Black sin doth deface
          The region called Hell."

          Again the sharp axe
          Swings out as it cracks
          The Elm of Nax.
"The Clergyman's wife,
          With eyes meekly down,
(No trouble, no strife),
          Receives the white gown,
Pure water of life,
          Immortal bright crown.

"Now what shall we say,
          That Pilgrim thought holy—
Oh dread judgment day!
          Apparently lowly,
Now deep in hot clay,
          That place most unholy.

"The boss Hobo he,
          Dense Jackass, lame soul;
After many a spree
          Now steeps in the bowl,
Accepts the decree
          And pays the last toll
          By shovelling coal.

"Poor Stranger, befuddled,
          Not fit to be seen.
Dumbfounded, quite muddled,
          Wrapped up in a sheen
Of fire all cuddled
          In Fiddler's green."

          Again the sharp axe
          Swings out as it cracks
          The Elm of Nax.

"The black oven door—
          Just open it—well,
One girl, nothing more
          In th' fiery cell.
She screams evermore.
          Poor girlie in Hell.

"The girlie, proud boasting,
          Once walked through the street
To sin. What a toasting!
          Fierce punishment meet.
The fire is roasting
          The soles of her feet.

"Poor little Chippy,
Barefoot and dippy,
          Begging for stockings,
          While fiendish mockings
Are shockings, that yell!
Poor girlie in Hell,
          'Midst fiendish mockings,
          Begging for stockings.

"We cannot defend her,
          Oh judgment most dire!
No, nothing can render
          Relief from the briar,
The soles of her tender
          Bare feet all on fire.
Hot flaming blister.
          Such fearful mockings!
Frail little Sister
          Begging for stockings."

The Elm is twisted,
The Fiend is enlisted
'Gainst Heaven collided,
And all is decided.
All business is lax
No more the axe cracks
The Elm of Nax.
The Angel chews tacks.

Black Hell Reaper quiver
          Keep twisting and turning,
While broiling yet shiver,
          All sizzling, churning
Th' flowing hot river
          Both freezing and burning,
Anarchy hurling
Th' torch, see it curling.
          Burning, no respite, no never,
          Burning forever and ever.

The Angel of light
          Now swallows the tacks,
Quite eager for flight.
          He gathers the flax
All glistening bright
          And rubs it with wax,
          In the shade of the Nax,
          On the banks of the Sax
          Fair river, Pax, Pax!

The cute foxy Sprite,
Now wove the flax tight
          In shape of a boat.
He sails through the night,
          Away he doth float
By th' silvery light
          Of th' moon. See him gloat,
          Caressing his axe,
          Saying, "Pax, brother, Pax."

The sprite sings a song
          In praise of the axe.
The boat skips along,
          That boat made of flax,
Far out on the sea
          Where the sun ever beams,
To th' island so free
          The Bun Land of Dreams.

The Arch Angel, he
          Fair neat model cod
Far out in the sea
          Now carries the hod
Of platinum bright,
          In fair land of Nod.

Most wonderful tree
Of Nacks, bend the knee
          And worship the axe,
          "Oh Pax, brother, Pax."

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