Classic Poem

Not all the saints are canonized:
There's lots of 'em close by;
There's some of 'em in my own ward,
Some in my family;
They're thick here in my neighborhood,
They throng here in my street;
My sidewalk has been badly worn
By their promiscuous feet.

Not all the heroes of the world
Are apotheosized;
Their names make our directories
Of very ample size;
And almost every family
Whose number is complete,
Has one or more about the board
When they sit down to eat.

Not all the martyrs of the world
Are in the Martyrology;
Not all their tribe became extinct
In some remote chronology.
Three live ones talked with me to-day,
Five passed me with a bow,
I met a dozen at the store,—
There goes a couple now!

The ichthyosaurus is extinct,
The great auk is no more;
But heroes, martyrs, saints, are thick
As in the days of yore.
Not like the auk and mastodon
Whose bones alone are found,
These are the types that still persist
And evermore abound.

Why weep for saints long dead and gone?
There's plenty still to meet;
Put on your wraps and call upon
The saints upon your street.
Oh, Plutarch's heroes were strong souls
And men of parts and pith,—
But there's McPeters and O'Brien,
Stubbs, Anderson, and Smith.

And Foxe's martyrs were strong souls,
But still their likes remain:
There's good old Mother Haggerty,
And there is sweet Aunt Jane.
You know them just as well as I,
Since they're a numerous brood,
For they are with you all, and live
In every neighborhood.