On an Emerald-garbed little Isle,

Beyond the broad-built Beaufort Harbor,

And wide, surrounding Sound:

Who is it, that strides, alone, by the stony Sea-Side,

So pompous, with his gleaming Southern Tux,

So powerful, with his great Ironclad Ships,

So stoutly-gunned, and Clan-ish, in influence?

His form is the form of a Spectral Giant,

But his Face wears a look of old, Familiar regret;

Can this be the Editor-in-Chief?

Can this be Josephus Daniels?

Ah, no! It is only his pale Ghost,

The Forgotten, who lives,

In that Ever-Padlocked Nether-Court,

And who says, were still he Secretary of the Navy,

As he was, when he caved to Woodrow,

For hefty Pay, and costly War,

He would build high a Great Wall, insurmountable,

Around his Brazen Likeness,

And higher yet, around his Mortal, bodily fort.