 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
474
POLITICAL POEMS.
QUEEN VICTORIA, 1887.
God bless our gracious Queen,
Who blest to us has been,
Through hopes and fears;
To labourer's lowly spade,
To soldier's battle blade,
In sunshine and in shade,
These fifty years.
God bless the Queen.
Who blest to us has been,
Through hopes and fears;
To labourer's lowly spade,
To soldier's battle blade,
In sunshine and in shade,
These fifty years.
God bless the Queen.
God bless our noble Queen,
In perils hid or seen,
In earthquake throes;
Victorious make her power,
Be unto her a Tower,
Though tempests darkly lower,
Against her foes.
God bless the Queen!
In perils hid or seen,
In earthquake throes;
Victorious make her power,
Be unto her a Tower,
Though tempests darkly lower,
Against her foes.
God bless the Queen!
God bless our gentle Queen,
Whose Court's unspotted sheen,
Our beacon is;
Whose fair and lofty life,
As woman, mother, wife,
In stillness and in strife,
Was ever His.
God bless the Queen!
Whose Court's unspotted sheen,
Our beacon is;
Whose fair and lofty life,
As woman, mother, wife,
In stillness and in strife,
Was ever His.
God bless the Queen!
God bless our blameless Queen,
Her judgment sword make keen,
If fall it must;
Love be her Royal dress—
Her armour for distress,
Her breastplate righteousness,
Her buckler trust.
God bless the Queen!
Her judgment sword make keen,
If fall it must;
Love be her Royal dress—
Her armour for distress,
Her breastplate righteousness,
Her buckler trust.
God bless the Queen!
God bless our loving Queen,
From scathe and evil screen,
Her happy throne;
Her head with glory crown,
And send her history down,
Written in true renown
Not crumbling stone.
God bless the Queen!
From scathe and evil screen,
Her happy throne;
Her head with glory crown,
And send her history down,
Written in true renown
Not crumbling stone.
God bless the Queen!
475
God bless our honoured Queen,
Preserve her memory green,
As England's soil;
Let song her triumph swell,
To children's children tell,
She wisely ruled and well,
And shared our toil.
God bless the Queen!
Preserve her memory green,
As England's soil;
Let song her triumph swell,
To children's children tell,
She wisely ruled and well,
And shared our toil.
God bless the Queen!
God, who is ever King,
Bless her and treasures bring,
Earth can but feign;
Make over sea and land,
Which lie within His hand,
Her people as the sand,
And by her reign.
God bless the Queen!
Bless her and treasures bring,
Earth can but feign;
Make over sea and land,
Which lie within His hand,
Her people as the sand,
And by her reign.
God bless the Queen!
HOW THEY GOVERN US.
Two cronies were they and yet one,
That sat upon the stile,
As they for ages now had done—
It seemed a little while;
They sat upon the stile, because
It could not sit on them,
And talked of lollipops and laws,
And each new theorem;
Why little babes have little teeth,
Within their gums to bite,
And what's Society, beneath
Its sugar plums and spite.
That sat upon the stile,
As they for ages now had done—
It seemed a little while;
They sat upon the stile, because
It could not sit on them,
And talked of lollipops and laws,
And each new theorem;
Why little babes have little teeth,
Within their gums to bite,
And what's Society, beneath
Its sugar plums and spite.
They sat upon that ancient stile,
Awaking and in sleep,
It pleased the Popinjay to smile,
The Nincompoop to weep;
The Popinjay he smiled so long,
As often as he durst;
That soup and sentiments went wrong,
And every button burst;
He smiled, as one who fondly thinks
He backs the winning steed,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Came running out to feed.
Awaking and in sleep,
It pleased the Popinjay to smile,
The Nincompoop to weep;
The Popinjay he smiled so long,
As often as he durst;
That soup and sentiments went wrong,
And every button burst;
He smiled, as one who fondly thinks
He backs the winning steed,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Came running out to feed.
That painted Popinjay was wise,
And scattered crumbs of wit,
Blue-books and precedents and pies,
That sometimes someone hit;
Benevolent and bland, he joked
At very good mammas,
Drank deep his neighbour's wine and smoked
Only his best cigars;
He saw the saint and sinner both
Were brothers off the stage,
How party ends determined troth,
And smiled upon the Age.
And scattered crumbs of wit,
Blue-books and precedents and pies,
That sometimes someone hit;
476
At very good mammas,
Drank deep his neighbour's wine and smoked
Only his best cigars;
He saw the saint and sinner both
Were brothers off the stage,
How party ends determined troth,
And smiled upon the Age.
They talked of every rising pup,
In their peculiar way,
Why Irish noses will turn up,
And Irish patriots bray;
They wondered if the moon were cheese,
And maiden's eyes were stars,
Or why poor Poland made us sneeze,
And Cabinets had jars;
How Gladstone was, like famous bards,
In twenty places born,
Or gave but telegrams and cards,
And kicked at facts in scorn.
In their peculiar way,
Why Irish noses will turn up,
And Irish patriots bray;
They wondered if the moon were cheese,
And maiden's eyes were stars,
Or why poor Poland made us sneeze,
And Cabinets had jars;
How Gladstone was, like famous bards,
In twenty places born,
Or gave but telegrams and cards,
And kicked at facts in scorn.
It did appear a curious fate,
None counted more than ten,
All dinner put before the State,
And measures after men;
While rulers, who a country led,
Though playing fast and loose,
Would take a Continent to bed,
And followed some sweet goose;
None cared for principles, but power
Or just the filthy pay,
To buzz and sting one little hour,
Or stack a little hay.
None counted more than ten,
All dinner put before the State,
And measures after men;
While rulers, who a country led,
Though playing fast and loose,
Would take a Continent to bed,
And followed some sweet goose;
None cared for principles, but power
Or just the filthy pay,
To buzz and sting one little hour,
Or stack a little hay.
They marvelled, sages ran about
From fancy shops to farms,
And left their citadels without
The money and the arms;
And when the house was burning quite,
They quarreled about names,
And parties could not then unite
To quench the killing flames;
And how the leaders talked, and slid
Off with the dinner bell,
Then talked again and nothing did,
But did that very well.
From fancy shops to farms,
And left their citadels without
The money and the arms;
And when the house was burning quite,
They quarreled about names,
And parties could not then unite
To quench the killing flames;
And how the leaders talked, and slid
Off with the dinner bell,
Then talked again and nothing did,
But did that very well.
Good Mrs. Grundy sometimes came,
To have a cup of tea
And tattle, or a quiet game
Of fiddle-diddle-dee;
She knew the proper thing to do,
In any time of stress,
And had such proper feelings too,
Behind her black silk dress;
The Popinjay, that best of men,
By her was sweetly wiled,
And, if she cheated now and then,
Yet only more he smiled.
To have a cup of tea
And tattle, or a quiet game
Of fiddle-diddle-dee;
477
In any time of stress,
And had such proper feelings too,
Behind her black silk dress;
The Popinjay, that best of men,
By her was sweetly wiled,
And, if she cheated now and then,
Yet only more he smiled.
They often made their neighbours' beds,
With thorns and ginger beer,
Or danced a hornpipe on their heads,
When nobody was near;
They played at war and stately tricks
Esteemed in camps and courts,
Puss-in-the-corner, politics,
And other little sports;
For Mrs. Grundy loved high jinks,
If they were but discreet,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks,
Sat gaping at her feet.
With thorns and ginger beer,
Or danced a hornpipe on their heads,
When nobody was near;
They played at war and stately tricks
Esteemed in camps and courts,
Puss-in-the-corner, politics,
And other little sports;
For Mrs. Grundy loved high jinks,
If they were but discreet,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks,
Sat gaping at her feet.
And still the Nincompoop would weep,
Whatever they might do,
He wept to farmers about sheep,
he wept to lace his shoe;
He wept because the crops were good,
He wept if they were bad,
He wept that no one understood
Who wrote the Iliad;
He wept because great England's Bank
A beggar's balance kept,
If judges cups of sherry drank—
As coffee-still he wept.
Whatever they might do,
He wept to farmers about sheep,
he wept to lace his shoe;
He wept because the crops were good,
He wept if they were bad,
He wept that no one understood
Who wrote the Iliad;
He wept because great England's Bank
A beggar's balance kept,
If judges cups of sherry drank—
As coffee-still he wept.
But yet upon the stile they sat,
That shut their treasures in,
The Popinjay was nice and fat,
The Nincompoop was thin;
His tears went flowing fast, he knew
His precious life was brief,
He saw but men and manners, through
His pocket handkerchief;
Although he had a patriot taste,
And throve on women's fears,
And pretty orphans loved to baste,
Behind his veil of tears.
That shut their treasures in,
The Popinjay was nice and fat,
The Nincompoop was thin;
His tears went flowing fast, he knew
His precious life was brief,
He saw but men and manners, through
His pocket handkerchief;
Although he had a patriot taste,
And throve on women's fears,
And pretty orphans loved to baste,
Behind his veil of tears.
The Popinjay he worked the State,
By subtle words and wire,
And fed it from a dirty plate
With maxims of the mire;
He made the silly puppets dance,
To every air he chose,
And called it only dear romance,
When treading on their toes;
He beamed on all with gracious blinks,
He beamed for many a mile,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Kept basking in his smile,
By subtle words and wire,
And fed it from a dirty plate
With maxims of the mire;
478
To every air he chose,
And called it only dear romance,
When treading on their toes;
He beamed on all with gracious blinks,
He beamed for many a mile,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Kept basking in his smile,
The Nincompoop, he plied the Church
With platitudes and pills,
And left the people in the lurch
To nothing but the bills;
But then he wept at their distress,
And wrung his reverend hands,
And tore his hair which still grew less,
While forging firmer bands;
He wept, and bade them only wipe
The outside of the dish,
And collared (with a casual pipe)
The fairest of the fish.
With platitudes and pills,
And left the people in the lurch
To nothing but the bills;
But then he wept at their distress,
And wrung his reverend hands,
And tore his hair which still grew less,
While forging firmer bands;
He wept, and bade them only wipe
The outside of the dish,
And collared (with a casual pipe)
The fairest of the fish.
A rather festive time they spent,
Betwixt them and the pot,
In playing games of Government
And loo and idiot;
Champagne and oysters every day,
And likewise every night,
That wretched patriots had to pay,
Toiling with all their might;
Admiring crowds, an easy seat
In which they sweetly slept,
And practised how to drink and eat,
Or simply smiled and wept.
Betwixt them and the pot,
In playing games of Government
And loo and idiot;
Champagne and oysters every day,
And likewise every night,
That wretched patriots had to pay,
Toiling with all their might;
Admiring crowds, an easy seat
In which they sweetly slept,
And practised how to drink and eat,
Or simply smiled and wept.
They talked of scandals, how Lord This
Made love to Lady That,
Who sold a kingdom for a kiss,
A rosebud and a cat;
How noodle Jack was made a peer,
And Tom enriched his shelf
By brewing fools the famous beer,
He never touched himself;
But if a creature passed, that, lo,
Had some productive frame,
They thought it sinful it should go
As heavy as it came.
Made love to Lady That,
Who sold a kingdom for a kiss,
A rosebud and a cat;
How noodle Jack was made a peer,
And Tom enriched his shelf
By brewing fools the famous beer,
He never touched himself;
But if a creature passed, that, lo,
Had some productive frame,
They thought it sinful it should go
As heavy as it came.
It seemed a shabby trick, the twain
Should milk their neighbour's goat,
But Mrs. Grundy hid their gain
Behind her petticoat;
You see, she always made it right,
By her decorous dress,
That covered every sort of plight,
From killing to caress;
And then the Popinjay was fat,
He hoped for better days,
Passed round his comprehensive hat,
And solid went for stays.
Should milk their neighbour's goat,
But Mrs. Grundy hid their gain
Behind her petticoat;
479
By her decorous dress,
That covered every sort of plight,
From killing to caress;
And then the Popinjay was fat,
He hoped for better days,
Passed round his comprehensive hat,
And solid went for stays.
It idle were, to tell the plans
By which they conquering went,
With mops and sops and kitchen pans,
That pair benevolent;
Though daring people said, the stile
Ere long would topple down,
For all the Popinjay might smile,
And crack some person's “crown”;
They fenced their power with further links,
And deeper struck its roots,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Made blacking for their boots.
By which they conquering went,
With mops and sops and kitchen pans,
That pair benevolent;
Though daring people said, the stile
Ere long would topple down,
For all the Popinjay might smile,
And crack some person's “crown”;
They fenced their power with further links,
And deeper struck its roots,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Made blacking for their boots.
They always left a sort of loop,
By which they might recede,
The Popinjay and Nincompoop,
For they were wise indeed;
They had a useful box of salve,
To soothe the bitter brunt,
If ever through that safety-valve,
They made their exeunt;
'Twas wrought of butter and of jam,
Of legal writs that squash
Unpleasant things, mint-sauce and lamb—
And not unknown as Bosh!
By which they might recede,
The Popinjay and Nincompoop,
For they were wise indeed;
They had a useful box of salve,
To soothe the bitter brunt,
If ever through that safety-valve,
They made their exeunt;
'Twas wrought of butter and of jam,
Of legal writs that squash
Unpleasant things, mint-sauce and lamb—
And not unknown as Bosh!
They held a big Umbrella too,
Though badly soiled and seamed,
And a tall cock-a-doodle-doo,
That on his dunghill screamed;
Beneath that patched and palsied roof
Of soap and artful lies,
Flocked creatures that lived else aloof,
And called it compromise;
Their genius, which was highly paid,
Turned little what was great,
And fiddled over it—some said,
That dunghill was the State.
Though badly soiled and seamed,
And a tall cock-a-doodle-doo,
That on his dunghill screamed;
Beneath that patched and palsied roof
Of soap and artful lies,
Flocked creatures that lived else aloof,
And called it compromise;
Their genius, which was highly paid,
Turned little what was great,
And fiddled over it—some said,
That dunghill was the State.
Their purpose was, to humour folks
With promises and buns,
With pretty toys and prurient jokes,
Or something new in guns;
To pledge whatever they might ask,
Who liked a thumping tale,
And running keep a goodly cask
Of soporific ale;
And so they choked Lord Randolph's lynx,
And members armed with maps,
While all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Fed humbly on their scraps.
With promises and buns,
With pretty toys and prurient jokes,
Or something new in guns;
480
Who liked a thumping tale,
And running keep a goodly cask
Of soporific ale;
And so they choked Lord Randolph's lynx,
And members armed with maps,
While all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Fed humbly on their scraps.
POLITICS.
If you have a son, believing
Simply what he thinks will pay,
Scoffer, sceptic past retrieving.
But in siokness known to pray—
One who loves the true and solemn
Never, save for social need,
With the money-market column
Frames his temple out of greed—
One whose glory is to question
Pennies on the Gospel spent,
Pounds to give his d---d digestion—
Push him into Parliament.
Simply what he thinks will pay,
Scoffer, sceptic past retrieving.
But in siokness known to pray—
One who loves the true and solemn
Never, save for social need,
With the money-market column
Frames his temple out of greed—
One whose glory is to question
Pennies on the Gospel spent,
Pounds to give his d---d digestion—
Push him into Parliament.
If you have a son, so stupid
That he cannot learn at school,
Blind to his own faults as Cupid,
Just an utter downright fool—
One who scarcely knows his letters,
Always bottom of his class,
Hates and ridicules his betters,
But will follow any ass—
One who never grasped a notion,
Though as plain as man's descent,
Yet would back the wildest metion—
Push him into Parliament.
That he cannot learn at school,
Blind to his own faults as Cupid,
Just an utter downright fool—
One who scarcely knows his letters,
Always bottom of his class,
Hates and ridicules his betters,
But will follow any ass—
One who never grasped a notion,
Though as plain as man's descent,
Yet would back the wildest metion—
Push him into Parliament.
If you have a son, whose knowledge
Lies where vice and vermin creep,
Publicly expelled from college,
Very black among black sheep—
One who shines in dealing shady,
Blown by any doubtful wind,
Would an infant strike or lady,
Leads into the ditch the blind—
One who likes his cards and cheating,
Loaded dice and other tricks,
While you bet upon his beating,
Let him play at Politics.
Lies where vice and vermin creep,
Publicly expelled from college,
Very black among black sheep—
One who shines in dealing shady,
Blown by any doubtful wind,
Would an infant strike or lady,
Leads into the ditch the blind—
One who likes his cards and cheating,
Loaded dice and other tricks,
While you bet upon his beating,
Let him play at Politics.
481
If you have a son, a selfish
Seeker, deaf to other's pain,
Shut from duty as a shell-fish,
Opening unto nought but gain—
One who greedy is, and grovels
Down among the vilest mates,
Nursed on neighbours' wine and novels,
Rinsings out of dirty plates—
One who souses in the meanest
Mess, the boot avenging licks,
Happy only when uncleanest,
Let him roll in Politics.
Seeker, deaf to other's pain,
Shut from duty as a shell-fish,
Opening unto nought but gain—
One who greedy is, and grovels
Down among the vilest mates,
Nursed on neighbours' wine and novels,
Rinsings out of dirty plates—
One who souses in the meanest
Mess, the boot avenging licks,
Happy only when uncleanest,
Let him roll in Politics.
If you have a son, who lying
Always on a settled plan,
Prejudice like truth defying,
Scorns to be an honest man—
One whose falsehoods too are clever,
Troubled not by pangs of gout,
Conscience often called, and never
In his worst excess found out—
One who laughs at honour's holding,
And against decorum bent,
He has got a statesman's moulding—
Push him into Parliament.
Always on a settled plan,
Prejudice like truth defying,
Scorns to be an honest man—
One whose falsehoods too are clever,
Troubled not by pangs of gout,
Conscience often called, and never
In his worst excess found out—
One who laughs at honour's holding,
And against decorum bent,
He has got a statesman's moulding—
Push him into Parliament.
If you have a son, a trial
Daily, with the lips that store
Platitudes, nor take denial,
Grown a nuisance and a bore—
One who but delights to dabble
In the oldest tales and freaks,
Whose unceasing aimless babble
Empties rooms, whene'er he speaks—
One who, with the same dull paces,
Dances to the same intent,
Fossil cant and common-places—
Push him into Parliament.
Daily, with the lips that store
Platitudes, nor take denial,
Grown a nuisance and a bore—
One who but delights to dabble
In the oldest tales and freaks,
Whose unceasing aimless babble
Empties rooms, whene'er he speaks—
One who, with the same dull paces,
Dances to the same intent,
Fossil cant and common-places—
Push him into Parliament.
482
If you have a son, a laggard
Proved in each respected line,
Though a ripe and ready blackguard,
Swilling from the trough of swine—
One who brazen is of feature,
Big and blatant in his voice,
Cruel unto every creature
In his service, and by choice—
One who sins and sins with unction,
And at deed of mercy sticks,
Never felt an hour's compunction—
Let him stew in Politics.
Proved in each respected line,
Though a ripe and ready blackguard,
Swilling from the trough of swine—
One who brazen is of feature,
Big and blatant in his voice,
Cruel unto every creature
In his service, and by choice—
One who sins and sins with unction,
And at deed of mercy sticks,
Never felt an hour's compunction—
Let him stew in Politics.
If you have a son, in revel
Still unsoiled and loving right,
Whom the world and flesh and Devil
Hitherto have failed to blight—
One who helpful is and human,
Whom the wine-cup cannot drown,
Strong against the arts of woman,
That might drag an angel down—
One who finely fills his station,
Building not with others' bricks—
If for him you seek damnation,
Let him plunge in Politics.
Still unsoiled and loving right,
Whom the world and flesh and Devil
Hitherto have failed to blight—
One who helpful is and human,
Whom the wine-cup cannot drown,
Strong against the arts of woman,
That might drag an angel down—
One who finely fills his station,
Building not with others' bricks—
If for him you seek damnation,
Let him plunge in Politics.
If you have a son, devoted
Mainly to the village pub,
Fond of gossip, and denoted
Bad by every decent club—
One who burns the midnight candle,
Rank with nameless orgies' reek,
Trumpet of the last new scandal
Bringing blushes to the cheek—
One who all your care has úndone,
Ruining your fame and rent,
Good for the worst club in London—
Push him into Parliament.
Mainly to the village pub,
Fond of gossip, and denoted
Bad by every decent club—
One who burns the midnight candle,
Rank with nameless orgies' reek,
Trumpet of the last new scandal
Bringing blushes to the cheek—
One who all your care has úndone,
Ruining your fame and rent,
Good for the worst club in London—
Push him into Parliament.
If you have a son, whose idle
Hands are always doing harm,
Kept not in by bit and bridle
Known to the paternal arm—
One who will not toil, or study
Useful things that cost him pains,
Wipes on you and carpets, muddy
Shoes and actions that leave stains—
One who spoils your nags' condition,
Fires with wild cigars your ricks—
He may yet lead Opposition,
Let him work at Politics.
Hands are always doing harm,
Kept not in by bit and bridle
Known to the paternal arm—
One who will not toil, or study
Useful things that cost him pains,
Wipes on you and carpets, muddy
Shoes and actions that leave stains—
One who spoils your nags' condition,
Fires with wild cigars your ricks—
He may yet lead Opposition,
Let him work at Politics.
483
A PERSONAGE IN POLITICS.
1
He read the Sunday lessons in his church,He cut down trees and took to conjuring tricks,
He always left his comrades in the lurch,
Worked hard with toys, and played at politics.
2
A statesman without principle or plan,A patriot who laid low his country's flag,
Great as a babbler, sophist, charlatan,
He left behind him but his “Gladstone Bag.”
3
An antiquary, casuist, divine,He knew some sort of Greek, a little Latin,
Betrayed his brethren and his base design,
And (when once out) he could not get the cat in.
4
He loved of church and theatre to sip,Protested foul was fair and night was day,
Knew every mortal thing but statesmanship,
And bullied bravely and then ran away.
5
He only had one friend—the “Daily News,”He let no pledge his glorious freedom bind,
He hated honour, empire, truth, and Jews—
The cleverest, shiftiest, smallest of mankind
6
He failed to stand because on rotten ground,He could not walk and yet attempted flying,
His life was noted less for sense than sound,
But the best thing he ever did was—dying.
7
He tried at every trade and failed in all,He squandered goods that filled his neighbour's shelf,
He found a nation great and left it small,
And millions ruled who could not rule himself.
8
He trimmed and twisted, quibbled, sense defied,Explained, distinguished, what he said denied,
He pawned his conscience for Iscariot's place,
And wove his glory of a world's disgrace.
9
He served his country while it served his ends.To keep the traitors whom he called his friends,
And was so deeply moved by Erin's fate,
He chucked his brother's gold into the plate.
10
He changed his views with every passing gust,He covered all he touched with dirt or dust,
Betrayed his fellows, stolen booty gave,
And paid his servants with the sack or grave.
484
11
He talked and talked but never did a thing,He fiddled loudly upon every string,
His love of morning was the evening's hate,
His actions always (even his death) too late.
12
The slave of feeling, enemy to fact,He broke his party, cause, and every fact,
Deserted all his friends, and lived and lied,
And only when his venom failed him died.
13
He sold his soul to get a bloody power,With his own hand his comrades' funeral rung,
For lasting shame he won a triumph hour,
And over England's ashes piped and sung.
14
Shifting and drifting, shuffling on he erred,—Office to honour, victory to right,
And party still to principle preferred—
Till cursing yet he sank in native night.
15
He picked the poor man's pocket, filled his own,Who left a sullied flag, an empty purse;
He reaped the evil vanity had sown,—
To Church and State, allies and all, a curse.
16
He loved with passion—but he loved his own,He laboured hard—but for the Judas pelf,
He knew all-save the duty left unknown,
He worshipped greatly—but it was himself.
17
He swore that black was white and ill was good,Until the doom of blindness grew his fate,—
While fabries fell, that once augustly stood—
True to the last, the Devil's advocate.
18
He took the colour of the time and spot,Pulled up his plans before they struck their roots,
Tied fast some purpose to untie the knot,
Imprisoned scoundrels first—then blacked their boots.
HOME CURED.
Long upon her suffering bed she lay,
Ever doctors came and doctors went,
Felt her pulse, prescribed a better way,
Dosed her, bled her, with the best intent—
Drugged her, drenched her, for her numerous ills,
Lavished medicines that they never took,
Gave heroic parliamentary pills,
All the remedies they learnt from book—
Poulticed, blistered, bandaged, picked her up,
Fumigated, tickled, pulled her down,
Stuffed her platter, filled her brimming cup,
Starved her, stript her, robbed of every crown.
Ever doctors came and doctors went,
Felt her pulse, prescribed a better way,
Dosed her, bled her, with the best intent—
Drugged her, drenched her, for her numerous ills,
Lavished medicines that they never took,
Gave heroic parliamentary pills,
All the remedies they learnt from book—
485
Fumigated, tickled, pulled her down,
Stuffed her platter, filled her brimming cup,
Starved her, stript her, robbed of every crown.
Still her miserable bed she kept,
While each novice proved his 'prentice hand
On her wounds, and each reformer wept
Tears of anguish for the wretched land—
Swore they could and would the troubles mend,
Wherewith her afflicted frame was rife,
Big with theories to the bitter end
And at any cost—if it were life;
Bound to show the beauty of their skill
On the helpless body, they were sure
Art at least could elegantly kill,
If it did not happen quite to cure.
While each novice proved his 'prentice hand
On her wounds, and each reformer wept
Tears of anguish for the wretched land—
Swore they could and would the troubles mend,
Wherewith her afflicted frame was rife,
Big with theories to the bitter end
And at any cost—if it were life;
Bound to show the beauty of their skill
On the helpless body, they were sure
Art at least could elegantly kill,
If it did not happen quite to cure.
Strange to say, her sickness never ceased,
Though physicians all their cunning tried,
And as they in numbers yet increased,
Her diseases somehow multiplied;
Till from head to foot with bitter pain
Racked, she shook and groaned in fever sore,
While her piteous cries appealed in vain,
And the burden grew upon her more.
What the matter might be, it was clear
No one knew and no one truly cared;
If they all agreed to charge her dear,
And the gains from her misfortune shared.
Though physicians all their cunning tried,
And as they in numbers yet increased,
Her diseases somehow multiplied;
Till from head to foot with bitter pain
Racked, she shook and groaned in fever sore,
While her piteous cries appealed in vain,
And the burden grew upon her more.
What the matter might be, it was clear
No one knew and no one truly cared;
If they all agreed to charge her dear,
And the gains from her misfortune shared.
Whigs and Tories, Radicals, and those
Who are champions of the wronged and poor,
Plied their trades about her as they chose,
And kept sweetly knocking at her door;
While the patient low and lower sank,
Weak and weaker turned, despoiled of wealth,
As her lovers prospered, ate, and drank
To the prospect of her better health,
Till, at last, the invalid got vext,
At the promises that lied and lured,
Took a preacher with a different text,
Saved her bacon and became Home Cured.
Who are champions of the wronged and poor,
Plied their trades about her as they chose,
And kept sweetly knocking at her door;
While the patient low and lower sank,
Weak and weaker turned, despoiled of wealth,
As her lovers prospered, ate, and drank
To the prospect of her better health,
Till, at last, the invalid got vext,
At the promises that lied and lured,
Took a preacher with a different text,
Saved her bacon and became Home Cured.
A CRY FROM THE GUTTER.
“Wot's the evenin news, me matey? Tell us;
Fur it's offul heer aloän,
Whon ther's summut broken in yer bellus,
An the mischief be unknoän;
Whan yer vice be loike a fiddle scrapin,
With a wheezin whustlin soun;
Or a rusty hinge as hangs, a shapin
Fur ter dror itsel aroun.
Fur it's offul heer aloän,
Whon ther's summut broken in yer bellus,
An the mischief be unknoän;
486
With a wheezin whustlin soun;
Or a rusty hinge as hangs, a shapin
Fur ter dror itsel aroun.
“Docter bin—ar knowed he were a cummin,
Cause the dip med coffin shells;
An ther were a curous kinder strummin
In me earn, loike funeral bells.
An he says, says he, “It's mainly pinin,
As is pinchin yer, ole chap;
An yer westcut wants a better linin,
Leastways not the loikes o' pap.
Cause the dip med coffin shells;
An ther were a curous kinder strummin
In me earn, loike funeral bells.
An he says, says he, “It's mainly pinin,
As is pinchin yer, ole chap;
An yer westcut wants a better linin,
Leastways not the loikes o' pap.
““Aint yer got no friends, excep the parrish,
As ken tide yer over this,
That yer croaks loike bull-frogs in a marrish?
Whar's yer clargy maam or miss?”
“An he larfs, “Ye've sich a constitootion,
As should be a Briton's pride,
Loike Ole England's, wuss fur Rivolootion,
An the rats that gnaws inside.”
As ken tide yer over this,
That yer croaks loike bull-frogs in a marrish?
Whar's yer clargy maam or miss?”
“An he larfs, “Ye've sich a constitootion,
As should be a Briton's pride,
Loike Ole England's, wuss fur Rivolootion,
An the rats that gnaws inside.”
“Thin he tries me tongue, an pokes his fisties
In me ribs an on me back;
Taks his watch (all gole) an feels me wristies,
Till the verra sinews crack.
“Wall,” says he, “ar knows a barn-door creakin,
Bets the beauties wot goes fast;
Pull yer through ar wull, if with some squeakin,
But this time muss be the last.”
In me ribs an on me back;
Taks his watch (all gole) an feels me wristies,
Till the verra sinews crack.
“Wall,” says he, “ar knows a barn-door creakin,
Bets the beauties wot goes fast;
Pull yer through ar wull, if with some squeakin,
But this time muss be the last.”
—“Wot d'ye says? Mor fellers in the gutter,
Sacked, an by thez furrin blokes,
Prigs our bread, mate—let aloän the butter,
Whither we go hang an chokes?
Plague on thim, an cusses on the mortals
As is huntin north an south
Fur the labour, pinin at ther portals,
Takin food frum childer's mouth.
Sacked, an by thez furrin blokes,
Prigs our bread, mate—let aloän the butter,
Whither we go hang an chokes?
Plague on thim, an cusses on the mortals
As is huntin north an south
Fur the labour, pinin at ther portals,
Takin food frum childer's mouth.
“Whoy doant furrin chappy stick ter his'n,
Kip hez crack-jaw lingo ter hez kin?
Whoy be ourn the poor-house or the prison,
If we're lucky ter creep in?
An ther aint no kinder use o' cryin
Fur the money, or a male—
Cep fur maggots, whan it coom ter dyin;
Yer ken on'y starve or stale.
Kip hez crack-jaw lingo ter hez kin?
Whoy be ourn the poor-house or the prison,
If we're lucky ter creep in?
An ther aint no kinder use o' cryin
Fur the money, or a male—
Cep fur maggots, whan it coom ter dyin;
Yer ken on'y starve or stale.
487
“Seem ter me, ther muss be summut rottin,
In a country loike this heer;
Whan it's flesh and blood is all furgottin,
An the stranger drinks its beer.
Seem ter me, as this poor bleedin nation,
That they tickles jist with straws,
Wants a precious sight o' alteration,
In its leaders or its laws.
In a country loike this heer;
Whan it's flesh and blood is all furgottin,
An the stranger drinks its beer.
Seem ter me, as this poor bleedin nation,
That they tickles jist with straws,
Wants a precious sight o' alteration,
In its leaders or its laws.
“Ar were allers peaceful, hated brawlin,
Niver keered as some ter roäm;
But ar doant loike an woant hev this crawlin,
Shunted out of house an hoäm.
Vittels we muss git, an fur our labour,
As shan't thus a-beggin lie;
Is't our guv'nors' duty ter ther neighbour,
If they lets un drop an die?
Niver keered as some ter roäm;
But ar doant loike an woant hev this crawlin,
Shunted out of house an hoäm.
Vittels we muss git, an fur our labour,
As shan't thus a-beggin lie;
Is't our guv'nors' duty ter ther neighbour,
If they lets un drop an die?
“Times is bad, in coorse, but hearts aint better,
If the bizness limp in chains;
It's the charity wot feel the fetter,
An ther's rogues as pockets gains.
Makin ev'ry 'lowance fur the saison,
Yet if 'ployers work ken give
Furrin hands, it sure-ly stan ter raison,
Us has stronger right ter live.
If the bizness limp in chains;
It's the charity wot feel the fetter,
An ther's rogues as pockets gains.
Makin ev'ry 'lowance fur the saison,
Yet if 'ployers work ken give
Furrin hands, it sure-ly stan ter raison,
Us has stronger right ter live.
“Wot's the wuth of all yer rates an taxes,
Whan yer brother han't a boän?
If fur but a pauper's crust he axes,
An yer gives the pavement stoän?
Ah, ther's summut wrong as cries fur mendin,
'Pears ter pass our bosses' skill,
Though a million voices votes its endin;
If they woant, the people will.
Whan yer brother han't a boän?
If fur but a pauper's crust he axes,
An yer gives the pavement stoän?
Ah, ther's summut wrong as cries fur mendin,
'Pears ter pass our bosses' skill,
Though a million voices votes its endin;
If they woant, the people will.
SPUNKY TIM,
OR THE LAST OF THE CHARTISTS.
I were niver wot yer might call a scholar;An I aint no better now;
But I knows the wuth of the cussèd dollar,
An am kinder fond of a row—
Won the coats goes off, an the stones comes flyin,
Like the hail in a winter morn—
Won the women weeps an the kids is crying—
Fur I were ter the manner born.
488
Won the wolf howled at the gate,
Won the Chartist boys raised the red umbreller,
In the glorious forty-eight.
An I hearn the tale, not frum lyin journals
As is paid fur party spells,
But frum lads that cracked the nuts fur kernels,
Though they only got the shells.
It were fine an fast while the runnin lasted,
But the pace too hot ter stay;
Yet they singed the bigwigs they'd ha blasted,
If they'd gone the proper way.
An the nobs turned out, an that Frenchy feller,
Louis Nap frum cross the flood,
Who went in ter fight with his face all yeller,
Got the tiger taste fur blood.
I remember that April, by thes token,
As I entered the earth too quick,
An my dad had his smellin-bottle broken,
By a blow frum a special's stick.
But he says, says he, that he were a martyr,
And the wuld were out of joint;
While he med me swear ter keep the Charter,
An ter stan by every point.
An I kep it wull, in spite of hunger,
Though it niver did me no good,
An I b'lieved it too won days was younger,
With the faith as is human food.
An a hate fur them bloated upper classes,
With ther clothes-pegs of gran silk,
With ther jewelled swine an crownèd asses,
I sucked in with my mother's milk.
So the times wagged on, an I were at seven
Fur a rivolootion ripe:
An I dreamed my dreams of the Chartist heaven,
As I puffed at my daddy's pipe.
Thin they brought in a Bill ter starve us under,
An ter stop the Sunday trade;
An they mistook it fur the Jedgment thander,
Cause a pulpit donkey brayed.
So we rose agin at Dicky Grosvenor,
I went out myself that June,
An I lef my mark (as they calls a sovenir),
While we danced the Devil's tune;
Fur we smashed no end of palace winders,
An we riddled Grosvenor Place;
An if it was not chawed up ter cinders,
'Twern't us as given it grace.
Fur the fire it hung an only sputtered,
An the flame it would not stick;
489
With the broken glass an brick.
Ther were thin a long dead starvin quiet,
An they offered us sugared sops;
As if men would rest content ter diet,
On the likes of lollipops.
But it were no use ter tickle ailins,
While we lay in that slavish fix,
An we walked slap over Hyde Park railins,
In the summer of sixty-six.
But we split no heads, if we bust the fences—
Though we stirred a precious storm—
Ter show we was tired of sham pretences,
An we would have real Reform.
It seemed childer's work, an not meat fur artists,
Who had battles starn ter win;
But we helped the game along, us Chartists,
An I were the foremust in.
An the folks what scowled behind ther glasses,
Who was blin ter the bleedin sights,
Found a kinder kick in the downtrod masses,
As was goin to hev ther rights.
They kep chuckin bones, an crusts, an “measures,”
Won we wanted a decent coat;
An the swells went on at ther own derned pleasures,
With ther grip on the labourer's throat,
Won our hands it was as were all ther ladder,
That they scorned because we was poor,
While they climbed on us and us grew sadder,
An the wolf niver lef the door.
But they bragged, an ther words dropt sweet as honey,
That they'd cheapened the people's bread;
But the loaf's no meal without the money,
An it won't bring back yer dead.
So the years they pass'd, and our needs waxed riper,
An they dolin us crumbs an sich;
But the workin-man allers paid the piper,
An no hoppin med him rich.
An it were no grist jest ter call him brother,
If he only had things ter pay;
Won they give with one hand, with the other
They took better goods away.
Es, the bread were cheap, and the work were cheaper,
An the labourer did'nt look up;
Fur the honest arm as were the reaper,
Couldn't get a bite or sup.
Whar's the fun of they prices lower fallin
An a fiddlin we is free,
Won a chap who will can't ply his callin,
An there aint no Trade ter see?
490
But I knows extremes won't mix;
An agin with the boys I off my collar,
In the blesséd eighty-six.
It were time, fur matters turned all contráry,
An us thousands had the sack,
In the second week of Febuàry,
On the Monday they names Black.
But them plaguey thieves with their dirty manners,
As can only steal an shout,
They has lef a stain on our bright banners,
Which can sceercely be washed out
'Twas ther stones as killed that carriage beauty,
An not one of our Chartist pals;
I'd hit any man (fur I sticks ter duty),
But I niver struck the gals.
An I reckon ef Tim had nailed the varmint,
He'd a message which he culd tell,
An the cur that spiled her purty garment,
Would hev passed in his checks ter hell.
Fur my name it be Tim, as it's known ter Nunky,
Though I weren't baptized ter it,
An my mates purfixes likewise Spunky,
Along of my cussed grit.
But I can't git over that murdered woman,
Her as died the most frum fright;
Fur my heart be warm an I's very human,
An I'd like ter hev said “Good night.”
An it done no good, ef the rogues med plunder,
Though I cannot go out no more;
The fools is above an the slaves is under,
An the times as they was before.
Fur the bleak black fog it has stuck in my bellers,
An I notice is sarved ter quit,
Nor be life so kin' ter the workin fellers,
As they should object ter flit.
I hev fought my best, an said my notion
About men an maids an all,
An I guess it be arned this here purmotion,
If it were the Capting's call.
Fur I've starved below, like a fly in amber,
As has died fur an outward shove;
An I b'lieve this move's ter the Upper Chamber,
Leastways the great House above.
Though I've not sot foot in them pious borders,
Nor yet troubled my brains with Church,
I niver once disobeyed my orders,
Nor a comrade lef in the lurch.
I'd a mind fur the chapel meetins, rather
Then the parsons wot comed round;
491
Though ther aint no sweeter sound.
I weren't the shape of yer prayin people,
With religion cut an dried;
I know more of the tiles of the parish steeple,
Nor the texes as is inside.
But I hopes the Lord, ef He beant no viction,
Won't furgit how I tried ter be
As a man should live, in his danged affliction,
An will chalk that down ter me.
An I niver shammed, nither shirked my labour,
Excep won I's on the shelf;
An I done my duty by my neighbour
Wot's more nor he done by myself.
I hev laid no finger on a hussy,
Nor picked pockets the ways ef some—
An I hearn as Christ on all souls has mussy—
An of sich is the Kingdom Come.
These is curous times, and the wuld be rollin
In permiscus sort of ruts;
Ther's knells in the air as of death-bells tollin,
An ther's Jestices an Butts.
Yer marks coves an coves, an some is bastards,
As goes shakey in ther jints,
Med of drunken sots an knaves an dastards,
An particler ter ther “pints.”
But they ben't the Five of the gran ole Charter,
Which was lights wharby ter steer;
An these swillin-tubs ther soles would barter,
Fur as many “pints” of beer.
They're a class of goods as is not negotiable,
Them Socialists yer sees,
As is all that's splash, but derned unsociable,
An nary man agrees.
I hev writ my name, with reformin artists,
On the ballot and sich like boons;
An, mebbe, I's the last of the true ole Chartists,
Wasn't born with silver spoons.
Fur the price be low an the glass keep fallin,
An so am poor Spunky Tim;
An, hark! ther's the Capting's trumpet callin,
Fur ter pipe the evenin hymn.
THE CURSE OF NO LABOUR.
1
It is not that we are idle,It is not that we are proud,
If we slouch along or sidle
In the silence or the crowd,
With our pallid cheeks and hollow,
And the shuffling shambling tread
492
Other victims to the dead.
It is not that we are shamming,
Or would shirk the toiler's fate;
That we like the dreary slamming
Of the hateful workhouse gate,
With the pauper's brand and pittance,
And the patronising sneer,
Which bestows a grudged admittance
To the welcome without cheer;
If we creep with heavy paces,
Up and down the heartless street,
With a trouble on our faces
And a trembling in our feet.
And we beg not for your money.
Though we scorn not what you give,
We have heaped up for you honey,
And we only ask to live.
2
It is not the curse of labour,Which we suffer day and night;
As we see each man his neighbour,
Sinking deeper in his plight.
For these hands are scarred with toiling,
And these brows are seamed and worn
By the burden of the broiling,
Which we long have gaily borne;
With the dim and dying ember,
And the scarcely broken fast,
To the fogs of dark December
Right from January's blast.
It is not that we are thriftless,
Or were skulking sots and knaves,
When we shabby go and shiftless
On the road beset with graves—
When our wives are bowed with weeping,
And lie smitten in the dust,
And the children pine for sleeping,
From the lacking of a crust.
I'ts the curse of no employment,
Which we sorely feel and dread;
And we crave not for enjoyment,
But for daily work and bread.
3
It is not that food is dearer,Which our arms have helped to reap;
For though want was never nearer,
The food never was more cheap.
But we may not ply our calling,
And we must not use our skill;
493
We are falling lower still.
And why mock us with the plenty,
Which we have no power to get—
Not a single man in twenty—
And with labour cheaper yet?
It is not that gold is failing,
For the coffers are too full;
But they do not aid our ailing,
Though the little fingers pull.
And the Trade (in Freedom's title!)
Has forsaken us and flown
To strange lands, without requital,
Which are careful of their own;
While we miss the means which nourish,
And the strivings mourn which stay,
Just that foreign hearths may flourish
And a Party have its day.
4
It is not that we would hankerFor the goods of richer men;
We despise the social canker,
Of the poisoned speech and pen.
But we weary and we sorrow,
For the wounds we cannot heal;
And if blacker were the morrow,
We would rather die than steal.
Though we stagger on and stumble,
And our loved ones fade and fall,
And we may be poor and humble,
We are honest before all.
From our dwellings we are driven,
By the bitter cry of need;
For the darlings, who were given
Unto us, we may not feed.
And we dare not watch them perish,
As the helpless never should,
When we swore and meant to cherish,
And would labour if we could.
We are loyal lowly brothers,
And the feast is grandly spread
In the happy homes of others,
While we starve for work and bread.
THE ADJOURNMENT. (26th May, 1882.)
I am weary of wishing discernment
In our rulers, like mine;
And I jump at the rest of Adjournment;
If it's only to—dine.
In our rulers, like mine;
And I jump at the rest of Adjournment;
If it's only to—dine.
494
I am weary of talk and want resting,
If for but a few days;
And I laugh as I come to divesting
My political stays.
If for but a few days;
And I laugh as I come to divesting
My political stays.
I am weary of Parliament's session,
And its wrangles grow dull;
And the flower of some sweet indiscretion,
I am eager to cull.
And its wrangles grow dull;
And the flower of some sweet indiscretion,
I am eager to cull.
I am weary of Brummagem glory,
Of the Parnell and prig;
For the Bible says God is a Tory,
And old Satan a Whig.
Of the Parnell and prig;
For the Bible says God is a Tory,
And old Satan a Whig.
I am weary of Pats that lead blindly,
And I hope for a hush;
Till sour Sexton has learnt to speak kindly,
And bold Biggar to blush.
And I hope for a hush;
Till sour Sexton has learnt to speak kindly,
And bold Biggar to blush.
I am weary of Dillon and murther,
And yet murther again;
Though the Devil can never go further,
Than the end of his chain.
And yet murther again;
Though the Devil can never go further,
Than the end of his chain.
I am weary of Gladstone's long fooling,
Who can only cry “mew”;
And I long for an hour of the ruling,
Of the heaven-sent Jew.
Who can only cry “mew”;
And I long for an hour of the ruling,
Of the heaven-sent Jew.
I am weary of bloodthirsty peasants,
And want rustics to woo;
I look forward to potting the phcasants,
And a Fenian or two.
And want rustics to woo;
I look forward to potting the phcasants,
And a Fenian or two.
I am weary of Jingo who travels,
That with Dukes he may sup;
Of the problem each season unravels,
For the next to tie up.
That with Dukes he may sup;
Of the problem each season unravels,
For the next to tie up.
I am weary already of dances,
And the kisses are cold;
There remains not a rag of romances,
And the youthful look old.
And the kisses are cold;
There remains not a rag of romances,
And the youthful look old.
I am weary of women, who blossom
In ambiguous charms;
Of the beauties, who boldly unbosom,
With rude shoulders and arms.
In ambiguous charms;
Of the beauties, who boldly unbosom,
With rude shoulders and arms.
I am weary of fops with tight stays on,
And of ball-rooms and belles;
Of the flirts, who so lavishly blazon
Their unsaleable spells.
And of ball-rooms and belles;
Of the flirts, who so lavishly blazon
Their unsaleable spells.
495
I am weary of lovely cosmetics,
And the prettiest pout;
And a twinge for a course of ascetics,
Comes from conscience or—gout.
And the prettiest pout;
And a twinge for a course of ascetics,
Comes from conscience or—gout.
I am weary of routs and want morè way,
Free from powder and plush;
From the overdressed crowd at the doorway,
And the drawingroom crush.
Free from powder and plush;
From the overdressed crowd at the doorway,
And the drawingroom crush.
I am weary of treading a ladder,
Hung as Jacob's in air;
And the vision grows paler and sadder,
Though the angels are there.
Hung as Jacob's in air;
And the vision grows paler and sadder,
Though the angels are there.
I am weary of love in the abstract,
And too general a sweet;
And the passing from clubs to the cabs' tract,
Is my only concrete.
And too general a sweet;
And the passing from clubs to the cabs' tract,
Is my only concrete.
I am weary of fashions half-hearted,
And the rosewater strife;
For the grace (with the starch) has departed,
From the shirtfronts of life.
And the rosewater strife;
For the grace (with the starch) has departed,
From the shirtfronts of life.
I am weary of hypocrites' faces,
Of the preachers who pant,
Through the mask of their lying grimaces,
For the charms they enchant.
Of the preachers who pant,
Through the mask of their lying grimaces,
For the charms they enchant.
I am weary of dowagers matching
Strange paces and legs;
And the humbugs, who ever are hatching
Matrimonial eggs.
Strange paces and legs;
And the humbugs, who ever are hatching
Matrimonial eggs.
I am weary of actresses' painting,
And ambassadors' pugs;
Of fine ladies addicted to fainting,
At Bradlaughs or—b*gs.
And ambassadors' pugs;
Of fine ladies addicted to fainting,
At Bradlaughs or—b*gs.
I am weary of tragedy dinners
And the organized lies;
And the raptures of delicate sinners,
Now no longer I prize.
And the organized lies;
And the raptures of delicate sinners,
Now no longer I prize.
I am weary of Luxury's plenty,
Though the source may be vague;
For the stir and the magic of Twenty,
Are to Thirty a plague.
Though the source may be vague;
For the stir and the magic of Twenty,
Are to Thirty a plague.
I am weary of follies, that flutter
Not a pulse in my veins;
And the comfited compliments utter
The most tuneless of strains.
Not a pulse in my veins;
And the comfited compliments utter
The most tuneless of strains.
496
I am weary of wanton Belgravia,
Its voluptuous air;
And I forget to adjust my behaviour
To betitled Mayfair.
Its voluptuous air;
And I forget to adjust my behaviour
To betitled Mayfair.
I am weary of elegant trifling,
Of the dawdling and bows;
Every pleasure is stupid or stifling,
From the Highlands to Cowes.
Of the dawdling and bows;
Every pleasure is stupid or stifling,
From the Highlands to Cowes.
I am weary of Park and of carriage,
Of old china and Guelf;
And I poise between murder and marriage
Or—the killing myself.
Of old china and Guelf;
And I poise between murder and marriage
Or—the killing myself.
I am weary of drawling the speeches,
That I drawled from the first;
Of pet vices that fasten like leeches,
And are ever athirst.
That I drawled from the first;
Of pet vices that fasten like leeches,
And are ever athirst.
I am weary of all that is proper,
And Society's curbs;
Of Decorum that comes with a stopper,
For irregular verbs.
And Society's curbs;
Of Decorum that comes with a stopper,
For irregular verbs.
I am weary of life so unselfish,
And of padding my breast;
Let me shut out the world like a shellfish,
Davitt take all the rest.
And of padding my breast;
Let me shut out the world like a shellfish,
Davitt take all the rest.
“ONLY ANOTHER MURDER.”
“On Sunday night, a desperate murder was perpetrated, at King
William's Town ------ County Cork. The victim is John Keefe
------ cause, disputes in reference to land ------ brother ------ nephew
------ arrested.”—Standard, 2nd May, 1882.
We wake, untouched by ill, and break our fast,
And on the papers careless glances cast—
What news to-day? We idly turn the page,
And nothing find our interest to engage
More than a passing moment.—Nothing?—Stay,
But is there really nothing new to-day?
And yet it is not new, the story told
Is not more dark and dolorous than old.
Just look again—the curse that never fails,
That bloody record in the Irish mails!
“On Sunday night” [the one day out of seven,
When man is nearest brought to God and Heaven]
“A desperate murder” [quite the devil's own]
“Was perpetrated at King William's Town.
The victim is John Keefe”—but listen!—“and
The cause disputes in reference to land.
His brother ------ nephew” [brothers sometimes fall
Out still] “have been arrested.”—That is all.
And is it nothing? Ask the widowed wife,
The children orphaned by this damnéd strife,
This hellish lust of land that nought may spare,
And call such murder nothing—if you dare.
But only Ireland—that's the usual way
In which they settle matters, do you say?
Only another murder, one more crime,
A human life cut short before its prime!
And on the papers careless glances cast—
What news to-day? We idly turn the page,
And nothing find our interest to engage
More than a passing moment.—Nothing?—Stay,
But is there really nothing new to-day?
And yet it is not new, the story told
Is not more dark and dolorous than old.
Just look again—the curse that never fails,
That bloody record in the Irish mails!
“On Sunday night” [the one day out of seven,
When man is nearest brought to God and Heaven]
“A desperate murder” [quite the devil's own]
“Was perpetrated at King William's Town.
497
The cause disputes in reference to land.
His brother ------ nephew” [brothers sometimes fall
Out still] “have been arrested.”—That is all.
And is it nothing? Ask the widowed wife,
The children orphaned by this damnéd strife,
This hellish lust of land that nought may spare,
And call such murder nothing—if you dare.
But only Ireland—that's the usual way
In which they settle matters, do you say?
Only another murder, one more crime,
A human life cut short before its prime!
Only another soul, above all price,
Thus offered up in dreadful sacrifice,
By those false statesmen who their dupes befool,
Unto the bloody Moloch of misrule!
Only another “woe”—only another,
And friend kills friend, and brother butchers brother!
Only another cry, that common sound,
Sent up for pity from the crimson ground!
Only another blot on that black page,
That goes to make the shameful Gladstone stage!
And though poor Ireland bleeds at every pore,
Yet London dances gaily as before;
The shuffling Premier with due relish dines,
While over that dead body he refines;
And as he pens each too well-known initial,
Declares he has “received no news official.”
Thus offered up in dreadful sacrifice,
By those false statesmen who their dupes befool,
Unto the bloody Moloch of misrule!
Only another “woe”—only another,
And friend kills friend, and brother butchers brother!
Only another cry, that common sound,
Sent up for pity from the crimson ground!
Only another blot on that black page,
That goes to make the shameful Gladstone stage!
And though poor Ireland bleeds at every pore,
Yet London dances gaily as before;
The shuffling Premier with due relish dines,
While over that dead body he refines;
And as he pens each too well-known initial,
Declares he has “received no news official.”
THE DEVIL AND THE PITCHFORK, 1882.
From his gridiron rose the old Devil in Hell,
With a splutter of fire and of brimstone;
And although he came up with a horrible smell,
Yet his voice was as sweet as a hymn's tone.
With a splutter of fire and of brimstone;
And although he came up with a horrible smell,
Yet his voice was as sweet as a hymn's tone.
For his medical man, whosoever he was,
Had just ordered a visit to Ireland,
Prescribing a Fenian frolic, because
That country was like his own Fireland.
Had just ordered a visit to Ireland,
Prescribing a Fenian frolic, because
That country was like his own Fireland.
498
But, if I mistake not, the name of the Leech
Who had sent him to Erin to gad on,
Has been written at length, though in Scriptural speech,
By the ominous name of Abaddon.
Who had sent him to Erin to gad on,
Has been written at length, though in Scriptural speech,
By the ominous name of Abaddon.
And nothing averse, in the garb of a priest,
That he might not occasion a panic,
Prepared for a murder or torture at least,
Thus arose his great Highness Satanic.
That he might not occasion a panic,
Prepared for a murder or torture at least,
Thus arose his great Highness Satanic.
And he said to the fool who was feeding his pigs
“Why go fattening a damned institution?
You must Boycott your masters, if Tories or Whigs,
And I will ensure absolution.”
“Why go fattening a damned institution?
You must Boycott your masters, if Tories or Whigs,
And I will ensure absolution.”
And he said to the tenant just filling his purse,
“The land is your own, by your labour!
Don't pay, or the rent will only be made worse,
Your improvements enriching a neighbour,
“The land is your own, by your labour!
Don't pay, or the rent will only be made worse,
Your improvements enriching a neighbour,
“Even now you are just on the victory's edge,
In the war with the grinding of grand lords;
Stand bravely behind a convenient hedge,
And pistol the spoilers and landlords.”
In the war with the grinding of grand lords;
Stand bravely behind a convenient hedge,
And pistol the spoilers and landlords.”
“The night is your friend and it will not betray,
If you mutilate beasts or go further;
Do not mind if a woman should stand in the way,
For there never was logic like murther.
If you mutilate beasts or go further;
Do not mind if a woman should stand in the way,
For there never was logic like murther.
“Be gallant and merciless, quit you like men,
With your mightiest Macs and your great O's;
And the pigs will have plenty of feasting, and then
There will be such a crop of potatoes.”
With your mightiest Macs and your great O's;
And the pigs will have plenty of feasting, and then
There will be such a crop of potatoes.”
So the tenants went forth in the moonlight and murk
To their deeds of destruction and evil;
And the blacker and bloodier waxed their bad work,
The more pleased and devout was the devil.
To their deeds of destruction and evil;
And the blacker and bloodier waxed their bad work,
The more pleased and devout was the devil.
For they shot down the women and children, and preached
The good news of the Home Rule damnation;
And they thought that the era of Peace had been reached,
When they only had made desolation.
The good news of the Home Rule damnation;
And they thought that the era of Peace had been reached,
When they only had made desolation.
And they hamstrung the cattle of those who had paid,
And inflicted a hell-begot sentence
On the innocent sleepers, and butchered, and prayed,
Were absolved, and then butchered repentance.
And inflicted a hell-begot sentence
On the innocent sleepers, and butchered, and prayed,
Were absolved, and then butchered repentance.
And the Devil went with them, applauding their deeds,
Though in public the holiest pastor;
And he bade them sow widely the dynamite seeds,
For the reaping of death and disaster.
Though in public the holiest pastor;
And he bade them sow widely the dynamite seeds,
For the reaping of death and disaster.
499
And for dolorous months they went doing their worst,
Between crime and confessional hassock;
Till the earth became hell, for so sore was it curst,
And the Fiend grew quite fond of his cassock.
Between crime and confessional hassock;
Till the earth became hell, for so sore was it curst,
And the Fiend grew quite fond of his cassock.
But then all in the midst of that terror and sway,
As they murdered or questioned on which fork
Of those bloody dilemmas to spit their poor prey,
Lo, they met with a MAN and his PITCHFORK!
As they murdered or questioned on which fork
Of those bloody dilemmas to spit their poor prey,
Lo, they met with a MAN and his PITCHFORK!
He was agéd, but weaponed not only with prongs,
But with justice on outrage agrarian;
And they fled, as their Master of old from the tongs,
From that sturdy old Octogenarian.
But with justice on outrage agrarian;
And they fled, as their Master of old from the tongs,
From that sturdy old Octogenarian.
And the Devil himself went back howling to Hell,
Though Miss Parnell had kept a nice drop o'tea;
But for years there remained such a horrible smell,
That all bolted—at least, who had property.
Though Miss Parnell had kept a nice drop o'tea;
But for years there remained such a horrible smell,
That all bolted—at least, who had property.
And as long as the exploits of heroes are told,
With their lights and their shadows of evil,
There is one, I am sure, that will never grow old,
Of the hero who pitchforked the Devil.
With their lights and their shadows of evil,
There is one, I am sure, that will never grow old,
Of the hero who pitchforked the Devil.
On 12th April, 1882, in Ireland, the house of an old man, over 80, was attacked by moonlighters. Arming himself with a pitchfork, he boldly sallied forth, and sent the cowards flying. That pitchfork should be historical.
A PAGE FROM THE DEVIL'S DIARY.
[PART I.]
I was up with the lark, from my pillow of fire
And voluptuous visions of torment,
Though I go to bed late, and I never perspire,—
If it's summer I scarcely feel warm in't.
And I found a Great Personage at his cigar,
As I slyly peeped in at the window;
And the door of his heart he just stopped to unbar,
While he said to me kindly, “come in, do!”
And voluptuous visions of torment,
Though I go to bed late, and I never perspire,—
If it's summer I scarcely feel warm in't.
And I found a Great Personage at his cigar,
As I slyly peeped in at the window;
And the door of his heart he just stopped to unbar,
While he said to me kindly, “come in, do!”
Then our talk was of oxen and horses and farms,
Of pet kittens and rosebuds and races;
To his catholic mind all these topics had charms,
And especially beautiful faces.
He objected to women whose breasts were of stone,
And to Chinamen's ladies like Foo Sing;
But complained that the rest would not let him alone.
And that so there was really no choosing.
Of pet kittens and rosebuds and races;
To his catholic mind all these topics had charms,
And especially beautiful faces.
He objected to women whose breasts were of stone,
And to Chinamen's ladies like Foo Sing;
But complained that the rest would not let him alone.
And that so there was really no choosing.
And I left him deflowering a maiden cheroot,
Lost in wonder at what dear Lord Charlie meant;
For I wished my Home Rulers' lost powers to recruit,
And the best of my pupils in Parliament.
While the taste of the Toddy had freshened me up,
And I always feel livelier, when I see
How my subjects delight in the kiss and the cup,
In the wives of their neighbours and Hennessy.
Lost in wonder at what dear Lord Charlie meant;
For I wished my Home Rulers' lost powers to recruit,
And the best of my pupils in Parliament.
500
And I always feel livelier, when I see
How my subjects delight in the kiss and the cup,
In the wives of their neighbours and Hennessy.
To the Commons I came and found Gladstone not gone,
In his happiest vein, I am blest if I
Did not leave him still speaking last night, and yet on
He went, ready to quibble and mystify.
They may call me the Father of lies, and I am,
And for lovers of truth I have nò mercy;
But the half-lie's my favourite weapon to damn
Souls, and nothing can beat his diplomacy.
In his happiest vein, I am blest if I
Did not leave him still speaking last night, and yet on
He went, ready to quibble and mystify.
They may call me the Father of lies, and I am,
And for lovers of truth I have nò mercy;
But the half-lie's my favourite weapon to damn
Souls, and nothing can beat his diplomacy.
If dishonoured a little is my poor old Bill,
And an article scarcely negotiable,
As a statesman long dead, though unburied, yet still
I have found him obliging and sociable.
I have lofty opinions of him, and his mind
Cannot fail in its flight to impress you, it
Is so free from all conscience, and veers like the wind,
And is subtler than that of a Jesuit.
And an article scarcely negotiable,
As a statesman long dead, though unburied, yet still
I have found him obliging and sociable.
I have lofty opinions of him, and his mind
Cannot fail in its flight to impress you, it
Is so free from all conscience, and veers like the wind,
And is subtler than that of a Jesuit.
Then I whispered to Dillon, who looked dark as hell,
And as if he had spent a night in it;
For his tongue is as good as a funeral bell,
And it tolls a new death every minute.
So he rose to explain that a crime has its charm,
And that all the great heroes were o' my side;
That evictions alone are the cause for alarm,
And mere “murther” is venial homicide.
And as if he had spent a night in it;
For his tongue is as good as a funeral bell,
And it tolls a new death every minute.
So he rose to explain that a crime has its charm,
And that all the great heroes were o' my side;
That evictions alone are the cause for alarm,
And mere “murther” is venial homicide.
“Stop evictions,” he promised, “and I will stop crimes,
And the rents must of course be just nominal;
There will then be no stabs, at inopportune times,
In the back or in regions abdominal.
The proprietors are the assassins, you know,
And our boys are not Teutons for toy-cutting;
For the Kelt is but good at the blarney and blow,
And is driven to force and to Boycotting.”
And the rents must of course be just nominal;
There will then be no stabs, at inopportune times,
In the back or in regions abdominal.
The proprietors are the assassins, you know,
And our boys are not Teutons for toy-cutting;
For the Kelt is but good at the blarney and blow,
And is driven to force and to Boycotting.”
But then Sexton jumped up, with his face of som milk,
And his maxims I ardently furthered;
Undertaker-like, he, looking daggers at Dilke,
Rose to bury what Dillon had murthered.
“Mind, in killing the landlord, it is not the man
That they shoot at, but only the principle;
Which was rotten and curst, ever since it began;
And the truth must be always in vincible.”
And his maxims I ardently furthered;
Undertaker-like, he, looking daggers at Dilke,
Rose to bury what Dillon had murthered.
“Mind, in killing the landlord, it is not the man
That they shoot at, but only the principle;
Which was rotten and curst, ever since it began;
And the truth must be always in vincible.”
501
No one ever was half so malign as he looked,
And I fondly stick close to my favourite,
As he scowled with his body all writhing and crooked,
While he hissed, “Now you Saxons must pay for it.”
He prcceeded, “Too long to the yoke have we bowed,
And been playing the victim and fainéant.”
Then he muttered a curse, as if weaving a shroud,
That was heard in my realm subterranean.
And I fondly stick close to my favourite,
As he scowled with his body all writhing and crooked,
While he hissed, “Now you Saxons must pay for it.”
He prcceeded, “Too long to the yoke have we bowed,
And been playing the victim and fainéant.”
Then he muttered a curse, as if weaving a shroud,
That was heard in my realm subterranean.
And then swaggering Healy, swashbuckler and all,
(Though he paused to adjust his affections,
Which were ruffled a little) arose at my call,
And gave some of his choicer selections.
Ah, if only such boys could take Erin in hand,
With sweet Parnell to play the harmonium;
It would truly be Freedom's most glorious land,
And a pattern for my Pandemonium.
(Though he paused to adjust his affections,
Which were ruffled a little) arose at my call,
And gave some of his choicer selections.
Ah, if only such boys could take Erin in hand,
With sweet Parnell to play the harmonium;
It would truly be Freedom's most glorious land,
And a pattern for my Pandemonium.
I was egging on others to licence in speech,
Which would bear fruit of outrage agrarian;
When the pestilent Speaker came down upon each,
As if servants like Thomas and Mary Anne.
Though the boys were all mad and the Speaker got slanged
With abuse it is needless to mention,
It is fitting that as they were born to be hanged,
They should taste of the joys of suspension.
Which would bear fruit of outrage agrarian;
When the pestilent Speaker came down upon each,
As if servants like Thomas and Mary Anne.
Though the boys were all mad and the Speaker got slanged
With abuse it is needless to mention,
It is fitting that as they were born to be hanged,
They should taste of the joys of suspension.
So I left them all snapping and snarling like hounds
That are baulked of their prey and barred from it;
That go fighting for offal, with sinister sounds,
Which they worry and mumble and vomit.
They have tasted the lash and yet smart with the pain,
And from blows they imagine keep swerving;
And with eyes that are bloodshot expect it again,
While they know they will get their deserving.
That are baulked of their prey and barred from it;
That go fighting for offal, with sinister sounds,
Which they worry and mumble and vomit.
They have tasted the lash and yet smart with the pain,
And from blows they imagine keep swerving;
And with eyes that are bloodshot expect it again,
While they know they will get their deserving.
Then I went to a breakfast laid out by a lord,
In the bosom of languid Belgravia;
But the manners were all that his friends could afford,
And the morals were not of Moravia,
For the ladies were easy of virtue, and gave
Their sweet souls to the claims of Society;
Though a Bishop was there, at their chastity's grave,
With some Scriptural saws for propriety.
In the bosom of languid Belgravia;
But the manners were all that his friends could afford,
And the morals were not of Moravia,
For the ladies were easy of virtue, and gave
Their sweet souls to the claims of Society;
Though a Bishop was there, at their chastity's grave,
With some Scriptural saws for propriety.
Then I picked up a duchess, to drive in the Park,
Who has turned from dear saint to dear sinner;
She met somebody there, I will merely remark,
And just told him to drop in at dinner.
Though the carriages shone with proud beauty and might,
Yet the hearts were my private monopolies,
And were on the Broad Road that is level and bright,
And goes down to my fiery metropolis.
Who has turned from dear saint to dear sinner;
She met somebody there, I will merely remark,
And just told him to drop in at dinner.
502
Yet the hearts were my private monopolies,
And were on the Broad Road that is level and bright,
And goes down to my fiery metropolis.
I was next at a party where gathered the fair
And the frail, in a garden like Eden;
I suggested elopement which pleased an odd pair,
And the pastures forbidden to feed on.
And I said “Down below it could not be more fine
While the course of Society such is!”
But I did not forget my engagement to dine,
And the evening alone with the duchess.
And the frail, in a garden like Eden;
I suggested elopement which pleased an odd pair,
And the pastures forbidden to feed on.
And I said “Down below it could not be more fine
While the course of Society such is!”
But I did not forget my engagement to dine,
And the evening alone with the duchess.
On the whole I was pleased with the progress of all
The disciples who give me adherence;
Human nature is still what it was at the Fall,
Though it wears a more decent appearance.
I returned to my kingdom to find that some fool
(He was Irish and gray with hypocrisy)
Had persuaded his fellows to beg for Home Rule,—
So I gave them the hell of Democracy.
The disciples who give me adherence;
Human nature is still what it was at the Fall,
Though it wears a more decent appearance.
I returned to my kingdom to find that some fool
(He was Irish and gray with hypocrisy)
Had persuaded his fellows to beg for Home Rule,—
So I gave them the hell of Democracy.
PART II.
“All is well,” said the Devil, as gaily he rose
From the smoke of his fiery pillow,
“Man is now (what he used to be) led by the nose
And fair woman as weak as a willow;
Things are mending a bit, and the Socialist craze
Is preparing the way for a better,
That will wrap this dead land in a h-ll of a blaze,
When I choose to slip Anarchy's fetter;
I must here take a peep, in my pastoral rounds,
At this sheepfold of cards and seduction,
And relax a few more of the bulwarks and bounds,
That some fanaties keep from destruction.
From the smoke of his fiery pillow,
“Man is now (what he used to be) led by the nose
And fair woman as weak as a willow;
Things are mending a bit, and the Socialist craze
Is preparing the way for a better,
That will wrap this dead land in a h-ll of a blaze,
When I choose to slip Anarchy's fetter;
I must here take a peep, in my pastoral rounds,
At this sheepfold of cards and seduction,
And relax a few more of the bulwarks and bounds,
That some fanaties keep from destruction.
“In a clerical suit and got up like the deuce,
With a very long face and big “choker,”
I may pass as a Canon, if I am profuse
In my coat and come out as a joker;
With a sigh at command for the comely and frail,
And a sprinkling of texts from the Bible
Carried under my arm, and a whitewashing pail
For the swells, and for paupers a libel;
So here goes, I will pose, in this mummery drest,
Bought of Vanheems and Wheeler, as parson,
And no duke would refuse to receive me as guest,
Though I advocate outrage and arson.
With a very long face and big “choker,”
I may pass as a Canon, if I am profuse
In my coat and come out as a joker;
With a sigh at command for the comely and frail,
And a sprinkling of texts from the Bible
Carried under my arm, and a whitewashing pail
For the swells, and for paupers a libel;
So here goes, I will pose, in this mummery drest,
Bought of Vanheems and Wheeler, as parson,
And no duke would refuse to receive me as guest,
Though I advocate outrage and arson.
503
“I see Somebody, ever a darling of mine,
Still a student of figures and faces,
In his paradise open to women and wine,
And sweet legs with the prettiest paces;
He will always be welcome, in spite of Papas
Who object to his amorous talent,
If he offers his friends the best soups and cigars,
And continues so youthful and gallant;
He shall have a warm place of esteem ere the close,
In my journal of richer variety
Than the scandalous chronicles favoured, and those
Which sneak up the backstairs of Society.
Still a student of figures and faces,
In his paradise open to women and wine,
And sweet legs with the prettiest paces;
He will always be welcome, in spite of Papas
Who object to his amorous talent,
If he offers his friends the best soups and cigars,
And continues so youthful and gallant;
He shall have a warm place of esteem ere the close,
In my journal of richer variety
Than the scandalous chronicles favoured, and those
Which sneak up the backstairs of Society.
“Ah, the Church is yet helping me on as of old,
With its hypocrite pomps and professors,
So attached to the faith of the fathers, and gold
Pouring in from good solvent transgressors;
For they scramble or squirm, and they grovel or fight,
For the pick of the loaves and the fishes,
For the rinsings of millionaires' plates, and delight
To lick noblemen's dirtiest dishes;
Doctor Tinder my firebrand, has kindled a flame,
And a music-hall made of his Minster,
Fluent Charlatan, playing unconscious my game,
Just to scare any fool or old spinster.
With its hypocrite pomps and professors,
So attached to the faith of the fathers, and gold
Pouring in from good solvent transgressors;
For they scramble or squirm, and they grovel or fight,
For the pick of the loaves and the fishes,
For the rinsings of millionaires' plates, and delight
To lick noblemen's dirtiest dishes;
Doctor Tinder my firebrand, has kindled a flame,
And a music-hall made of his Minster,
Fluent Charlatan, playing unconscious my game,
Just to scare any fool or old spinster.
And the State is fast drifting along to its doom,
Without helmsman or compass or rudder,
While the Rats that would bolt in the gathering gloom,
With their spoil, as they gloat on it shudder;
And the rulers demented by me, shuffle on
To the shame I assign them for napping,
But to wake with the worm when their empire is gone,
And when nothing remains but the trapping;
The sick Government, hopeless of finding a port,
After firing away with blank cartridge,
Now is idly its impotence hiding in sport,
And is faithful at least to the partridge.
Without helmsman or compass or rudder,
While the Rats that would bolt in the gathering gloom,
With their spoil, as they gloat on it shudder;
And the rulers demented by me, shuffle on
To the shame I assign them for napping,
But to wake with the worm when their empire is gone,
And when nothing remains but the trapping;
The sick Government, hopeless of finding a port,
After firing away with blank cartridge,
Now is idly its impotence hiding in sport,
And is faithful at least to the partridge.
But in Ireland the brimstone goes sweetliest up,
Where my cauldron of evil is hotting,
And I really to-night must find leisure to sup
With my pupils, and coach them in plotting;
Then they weary of Balfour, and he is so tough
That weak stomachs to tackle him question,—
They have grilled him, have roasted and fried him, enough
To impair the most hardy digestion;
I shall give them a change, something savoury, strong,
Such as Conybeare's skin or his diet,
A new grievance or lie showing England all wrong—
Wholesale murther alone can give quiet.
Where my cauldron of evil is hotting,
And I really to-night must find leisure to sup
With my pupils, and coach them in plotting;
Then they weary of Balfour, and he is so tough
That weak stomachs to tackle him question,—
They have grilled him, have roasted and fried him, enough
To impair the most hardy digestion;
I shall give them a change, something savoury, strong,
Such as Conybeare's skin or his diet,
A new grievance or lie showing England all wrong—
Wholesale murther alone can give quiet.
504
“As to money, Finance in its devious ruts,
Of my methods is proving the master,
While it drags my spent tools by the shabbiest cuts
To the end that they merit—disaster;
Mammon reigns, my vice-roy, and the death-bell he tolls
For the dupes that respond to his passion,
In the gambling that gives me so many d---d souls,
Now that swindling is fairly the fashion;
I am proud to record—for I prompted the Ring
By a tip which at Paris was spoken—
That I nearly pulled off an infernal good thing,
With the great Bank of England half-broken.
Of my methods is proving the master,
While it drags my spent tools by the shabbiest cuts
To the end that they merit—disaster;
Mammon reigns, my vice-roy, and the death-bell he tolls
For the dupes that respond to his passion,
In the gambling that gives me so many d---d souls,
Now that swindling is fairly the fashion;
I am proud to record—for I prompted the Ring
By a tip which at Paris was spoken—
That I nearly pulled off an infernal good thing,
With the great Bank of England half-broken.
“My grand agent, Jack Frost, who must do as I like,
From lost labour his capital borrows,
Driving out all his victims to starve on the strike,
While he fiddles a tune on their sorrows;
Oh, for stirring up messes he bears off the wreath,
As a devilish downright hot poker,
And if Proteus gets cold, I will use him beneath
For my own special patent head stoker;
May he prosper, in each operation that blocks
London business by any bad stages,
Till he anchors at last in the “dock,” or the Docks
Where I pay the most liberal wages.
From lost labour his capital borrows,
Driving out all his victims to starve on the strike,
While he fiddles a tune on their sorrows;
Oh, for stirring up messes he bears off the wreath,
As a devilish downright hot poker,
And if Proteus gets cold, I will use him beneath
For my own special patent head stoker;
May he prosper, in each operation that blocks
London business by any bad stages,
Till he anchors at last in the “dock,” or the Docks
Where I pay the most liberal wages.
“But a woman for choice—mind, I mention no names—
If you fancy a tale full of pepper,—
For the rapidest goer, if masculine, frames
Never quite like a gentle high-stepper;
I confide in her still, through her beauty and charms
Backing up her own ardent opinions,
With the magical touch of her dainty white arms
And red lips, to extend my dominions;
Yes, a thoroughbred Peeress, when once she plumps in
For the fun, does not stick at a copper,
Yields herself soul and body entirely to sin,
And soon learns all the nouns most improper.
If you fancy a tale full of pepper,—
For the rapidest goer, if masculine, frames
Never quite like a gentle high-stepper;
I confide in her still, through her beauty and charms
Backing up her own ardent opinions,
With the magical touch of her dainty white arms
And red lips, to extend my dominions;
Yes, a thoroughbred Peeress, when once she plumps in
For the fun, does not stick at a copper,
Yields herself soul and body entirely to sin,
And soon learns all the nouns most improper.
“Now perhaps I had better retire to my rest,
Though a figure of speech, for a season,
And I hope my disciples (like Frost) will be—blest,
For their little amusements in treason;
But I first must affix my particular brand
On a Lord, whose amours are all shady,—
I have got a delicious elopement on hand,
And should whisper a word to my Lady;
Ere I hie to my brimstone retreat, in the place
For which I need not make an apology,
Though no Science its seat has been able to trace,
Guaranteed by the soundest Theology,
Though a figure of speech, for a season,
And I hope my disciples (like Frost) will be—blest,
For their little amusements in treason;
But I first must affix my particular brand
On a Lord, whose amours are all shady,—
I have got a delicious elopement on hand,
And should whisper a word to my Lady;
Ere I hie to my brimstone retreat, in the place
For which I need not make an apology,
Though no Science its seat has been able to trace,
Guaranteed by the soundest Theology,
505
PROTEUS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
So here I am, within these storied stones,
To choose a place for my illustrious bones
To rest, among the dead who had their fling,
And lived and cheated subject fools and king,
(As is my lot), and having had their day
And done their best (or worst) then passed away
Devoutly, or with the convenient aid
Of other adverbs, when the debt was paid.
And I am quite as good as any here.
Though my leaf may be getting somewhat sere
And sickly. Never mind! The yellow tones
Will not appear in the distinguished stones
Wherein I still can lie, as I have all
These fifty years, while I kept the great ball
Going. My features have the classic turn,
And will look glorious o'er a funeral urn
Of marble.
To choose a place for my illustrious bones
To rest, among the dead who had their fling,
And lived and cheated subject fools and king,
(As is my lot), and having had their day
And done their best (or worst) then passed away
Devoutly, or with the convenient aid
Of other adverbs, when the debt was paid.
And I am quite as good as any here.
Though my leaf may be getting somewhat sere
And sickly. Never mind! The yellow tones
Will not appear in the distinguished stones
Wherein I still can lie, as I have all
These fifty years, while I kept the great ball
Going. My features have the classic turn,
And will look glorious o'er a funeral urn
Of marble.
Hang those precious busts!
One lifts a foot, and one a finger thrusts
Indignant at me; just because they failed
To ruin England, and I have prevailed,
I have succeeded. How they seem to frown,
As if I came to cut the nonsense down
Of their untrue memorials! I could find
A joy in trimming them more to my mind,
And mending histories that my patience tax,
If I had only brought my trusty axe.
Confound that ugly knave, that Chatham there,
Whose angry ghost must meet me everywhere,
And haunts like conscience that I cannot kill—
So you are there, and you accuse me still!
I hate you, I defy you: out with fear,
While I have got the purblind people's ear,
And keep it! I shall fill a larger space
In public memory, than your threatening face.
Come, let me now be still. He cannot harm,
One lifts a foot, and one a finger thrusts
Indignant at me; just because they failed
To ruin England, and I have prevailed,
I have succeeded. How they seem to frown,
As if I came to cut the nonsense down
Of their untrue memorials! I could find
A joy in trimming them more to my mind,
And mending histories that my patience tax,
If I had only brought my trusty axe.
Confound that ugly knave, that Chatham there,
Whose angry ghost must meet me everywhere,
And haunts like conscience that I cannot kill—
So you are there, and you accuse me still!
I hate you, I defy you: out with fear,
While I have got the purblind people's ear,
And keep it! I shall fill a larger space
In public memory, than your threatening face.
Although he knits his brow, and shakes his arm.
“Let's talk of tombs, of worms,” and mortal state,
It does one good at times to meditate
On death—I mean the death of others—fools,
Who were awhile my honoured toys and tools—
Not on my own: for Proteus cannot die,
If in this Temple he hereafter lie.
I've followed to the end my settled plan,
And killed them all, and buried the last man—
For duty's sake I packed them in the shell
Myself, poor Morley, Spencer, Harcourt, and Parnell
And all the rest. I undertaker am;
506
And Manchester, that bullied me so long,
With their eternal drivelling Caucus song,
And cant about the people's rights and cheer,
Who do not want more freedom but more beer.
This is a pleasant place, and fit for me:
How beautiful and blest it is to be,
Or rather not to be—it's all the same—
When you have neatly rounded off your Fame,
And got the headstone ready, and the Book
(Like magic views) through which the world shall look,
And read the picture done by your own hand,
With every shadow toned to the demand
Of eager dupes! And yet it's nice to live,
To show at least you never do forgive—
To teach the children in the Sunday schools,
And thunder lessons to religious fools
Who come to Church and never had a doubt,
And then to go away and feel devout
For half an hour! It's really quite divine,
So long as they don't ask me to resign,
Or even share my empire with some ass
Who sees the world through one small looking-glass,
And not through many. I will live and die
For my dear country, sunder every tie,
But this of Office; here the line I draw;
My service still shall be without the flaw
Of such a weakness. England's general voice
Chose me as chief, and I accept the choice,
But now what shall I do? The season calls,
And echoes answer from the holy walls.
My epitaph I'll write, and be no debtor
To ignorant men: and who could do it better?
EPITAPH.
“His acts were many, but his fame was mostThat naught could shake his grasp of Duty's post;
And though he often shifted form and plan,
Yet he remained through all the Grand Old Man.”
THE CONFERENCE OF 1882.
There went forth a mysterious rumour,
That the Sick Man was bad;
Though some said it was only the tumour
That he always had had.
There were sounds in each surgical college,
Of the sharpening of knives;
With a furbishing up of old knowledge,
And of rusty old lives.
That the Sick Man was bad;
Though some said it was only the tumour
That he always had had.
There were sounds in each surgical college,
Of the sharpening of knives;
With a furbishing up of old knowledge,
And of rusty old lives.
507
Lo, the Frenchman, with shrugging of shoulder,
Came the first to the front;
But his confidence somehow seemed colder,
Than before it was wont.
Operations, though often mere guesses,
He accounted a feast;
If he numbered but scanty successes,
He was brilliant at least.
Came the first to the front;
But his confidence somehow seemed colder,
Than before it was wont.
Operations, though often mere guesses,
He accounted a feast;
If he numbered but scanty successes,
He was brilliant at least.
Then the Englishman came in suspicion
Of his livelier friend;
And he swore that the patient's condition
Must now fatally end.
Dr. Granville prescribed a pomatum
Though his spirit was vext;
And protested this new ultimatum
Was the last—till the next.
Of his livelier friend;
And he swore that the patient's condition
Must now fatally end.
Dr. Granville prescribed a pomatum
Though his spirit was vext;
And protested this new ultimatum
Was the last—till the next.
The Italian came looking absurder,
For the grapes were so sour;
But his will, which was equal to murder,
Alas! wanted the power.
For his own constitution was rotten,
He had left on the shelf
His loved lancets, and had not forgotten
He took medicine himself.
For the grapes were so sour;
But his will, which was equal to murder,
Alas! wanted the power.
For his own constitution was rotten,
He had left on the shelf
His loved lancets, and had not forgotten
He took medicine himself.
All agreed that the patient was dying,
And would go before long;
But all measures suggested for trying,
All concluded were wrong.
Some advised of saltpetre a powder,
And of iron a pill;
The prescriptions grew longer and louder,
As the worse grew the ill.
And would go before long;
But all measures suggested for trying,
All concluded were wrong.
Some advised of saltpetre a powder,
And of iron a pill;
The prescriptions grew longer and louder,
As the worse grew the ill.
For the ill required less of incision,
Than decision of deed;
While the Sick Man looked on with derision,
And objected to bleed.
Till the German, with wisdom Egyptian,
And grave shaking of head,
Said, “In vain is your grandest prescription,
For the patient is dead.”
Than decision of deed;
While the Sick Man looked on with derision,
And objected to bleed.
Till the German, with wisdom Egyptian,
And grave shaking of head,
Said, “In vain is your grandest prescription,
For the patient is dead.”
THE FIRST SHOT
(July, 1882)
Lo, the Demon of drink went abroad on the blast,
In political messes he will be;
Goody Granville made this Ultimatum his last,
If it was not that conjurcr Gilbey.
For a very bad spirit had somehow got out,
And the better for all if it wère in;
As it knocked the poor Kingdom quite into a clout,
While it revelled in Egypt and Erin.
In political messes he will be;
Goody Granville made this Ultimatum his last,
If it was not that conjurcr Gilbey.
508
And the better for all if it wère in;
As it knocked the poor Kingdom quite into a clout,
While it revelled in Egypt and Erin.
Yet it matters but little who first made the mess,
When the land was the prey of the Demon;
Though the Irishman swore he had gone to confess,
And the Scotsman denied it was he, mon.
And the Englishman said, he had stuck to his shop,
It was loudly disclaimed by the Cabinet;
And wise Gladstone had let foreign policy drop,
For he knew he was not a great dab in it.
When the land was the prey of the Demon;
Though the Irishman swore he had gone to confess,
And the Scotsman denied it was he, mon.
And the Englishman said, he had stuck to his shop,
It was loudly disclaimed by the Cabinet;
And wise Gladstone had let foreign policy drop,
For he knew he was not a great dab in it.
Though abroad went the Demon through field and through flood,
At a chapel he stopped to have mass in;
For he scented afar the sweet savour of blood,
Yet he wished to absolve the assassin.
Then he kindly looked in on the Priest at his Psalms,
And took just one hot tumbler of toddy;
While he left a large case for assistance in alms—
To encourage, of course, the poor body.
At a chapel he stopped to have mass in;
For he scented afar the sweet savour of blood,
Yet he wished to absolve the assassin.
Then he kindly looked in on the Priest at his Psalms,
And took just one hot tumbler of toddy;
While he left a large case for assistance in alms—
To encourage, of course, the poor body.
He was loth to leave Ireland, and yet he must go
To the banquet of slaughter Egyptian;
In the face of Bright's Hat, and Ineffable Joe;
To let blood, was his only prescription.
He left Whig craft at strife with the Radical art,
And still trying to put a new gag on;
While poor Gladstone was posed in St. George's old part,
And the Cha-rlatan playing the Drag-on.
To the banquet of slaughter Egyptian;
In the face of Bright's Hat, and Ineffable Joe;
To let blood, was his only prescription.
He left Whig craft at strife with the Radical art,
And still trying to put a new gag on;
While poor Gladstone was posed in St. George's old part,
And the Cha-rlatan playing the Drag-on.
And he found the whole Fleet in a terrible rage,
The men more bloody-minded than Bonner;
While they fretted and chafed for the word to engage,
And to wipe off the stain of dishonour.
Ammunition was there, and the weather was hot,
And the sailors look vastly like winning;
So he said to himself I will fire the first shot,
And just set the great war-ball aspinning.
The men more bloody-minded than Bonner;
While they fretted and chafed for the word to engage,
And to wipe off the stain of dishonour.
Ammunition was there, and the weather was hot,
And the sailors look vastly like winning;
So he said to himself I will fire the first shot,
And just set the great war-ball aspinning.
In the stillness preceding the storm, from beneath
In the Admiral's ship came a popping;
And all hands hurried forward, all armed to the teeth,
To give Arabi—O such a whopping!
And the first shot was fired with such fatal effect,
As was never before in a cámpaign,
That a horrible panic seized Egypt's elect—
Though it was but a bottle of chámpagne.
In the Admiral's ship came a popping;
And all hands hurried forward, all armed to the teeth,
To give Arabi—O such a whopping!
And the first shot was fired with such fatal effect,
As was never before in a cámpaign,
That a horrible panic seized Egypt's elect—
Though it was but a bottle of chámpagne.
509
THE ROUSED LION. (1882.)
The grand old Lion lay within his lair,
At rest; and children hung upon the hair
Of his huge mane, and kissed the cruel jaws,
And stroked with fearful joy those massive paws,
Moulded like granite columns; round his neck
An infant clung, who came with flowers to deck
His awful head; and baby fingers swayed
The mighty beast, that hosts of men dismayed.
At rest; and children hung upon the hair
Of his huge mane, and kissed the cruel jaws,
And stroked with fearful joy those massive paws,
Moulded like granite columns; round his neck
An infant clung, who came with flowers to deck
His awful head; and baby fingers swayed
The mighty beast, that hosts of men dismayed.
The lesser beasts grew bolder, as he lay
Still in repose, and took from every day
That passed fresh courage; till at last they stole,
Each from the darkness of his hiding-hole,
And crept into the light. They trembled yet.
They could not, if they would, at once forget
The terrors of the Past; they cowered and crawled,
Like beaten hounds, by the old spell enthralled.
Still in repose, and took from every day
That passed fresh courage; till at last they stole,
Each from the darkness of his hiding-hole,
And crept into the light. They trembled yet.
They could not, if they would, at once forget
The terrors of the Past; they cowered and crawled,
Like beaten hounds, by the old spell enthralled.
Day followed day, and still the Lion kept
A calm unbroken. Then they thought he slept,
Gorged with the blood of victims, and would sleep
Till hunger waked him. So they ceased to creep,
And sported round him with defiant tread.
Then openly they cried that he was dead,
And spurned him, as the rider spurs the hack.
Curs, that once fawned, came snapping at his back.
A calm unbroken. Then they thought he slept,
Gorged with the blood of victims, and would sleep
Till hunger waked him. So they ceased to creep,
And sported round him with defiant tread.
Then openly they cried that he was dead,
And spurned him, as the rider spurs the hack.
Curs, that once fawned, came snapping at his back.
“Is this the King we worshipped so,” they said,
“Whose every movement made us sore afraid,
“Whose face struck panic? Nay, it is an Ass,
“Clothed in a Lion skin, with lungs of brass;
“We will be slaves no longer.” Then, in pride,
They trampled him, and round each mountain side
Heaped heavy chains, and built an iron pen.
But still the Lion stirred not in his den.
“Whose every movement made us sore afraid,
“Whose face struck panic? Nay, it is an Ass,
“Clothed in a Lion skin, with lungs of brass;
“We will be slaves no longer.” Then, in pride,
They trampled him, and round each mountain side
Heaped heavy chains, and built an iron pen.
But still the Lion stirred not in his den.
Why did he bear those insults, who of yore
Made the earth tremble with his tempest roar,
And shook it with his tread? His keeper knew
Who, though a coward and a traitor drew
The hireling's wages, while he drugged the food,
And stupefied his charge. Darkly he stood,
Vaunting his victim's tameness . . . But, at length,
The damnèd poison lost its wonted strength.
Made the earth tremble with his tempest roar,
And shook it with his tread? His keeper knew
Who, though a coward and a traitor drew
The hireling's wages, while he drugged the food,
And stupefied his charge. Darkly he stood,
Vaunting his victim's tameness . . . But, at length,
The damnèd poison lost its wonted strength.
A change came over him. He stirred, he stretched
His giant limbs. In vain the keeper fetched
Fresh dainties, and the old enchantments tried.
The captive King his poison dashed aside,
And crushed him with a blow. In royal rage,
He rose. And, lo! the bonds and iron cage
Crumbled and fell; and, at his dreadful roar,
They crawled and grovelled round him as before.
His giant limbs. In vain the keeper fetched
Fresh dainties, and the old enchantments tried.
The captive King his poison dashed aside,
And crushed him with a blow. In royal rage,
He rose. And, lo! the bonds and iron cage
Crumbled and fell; and, at his dreadful roar,
They crawled and grovelled round him as before.
510
THE SKELETON AT THE FEAST.
The lamps were lit, the gorgeous Feast was spread;
And to their seats the guests, with thoughtless tread,
Trooped. Their proud hearts were dancing high with joy;
Though forth had gone the Angel to destroy,
Whose name is Death. They heeded not the cry
Of murder, that seemed only to make fly
Swifter and sweeter the dark hours of shame.
With looks elate to that high Feast they came.
And to their seats the guests, with thoughtless tread,
Trooped. Their proud hearts were dancing high with joy;
Though forth had gone the Angel to destroy,
Whose name is Death. They heeded not the cry
Of murder, that seemed only to make fly
Swifter and sweeter the dark hours of shame.
With looks elate to that high Feast they came.
The master's eye ranged over that rare sight,
A monument of beauty and of might
Made captive to his will, with fearful bliss.
He saw alone the hidden black abyss
Below, that poisoned all his curséd pride.
He saw a Shadow ever at his side,
And stared around, with thunder-laden brow;
Mumbling, unconscious, still the broken vow.
A monument of beauty and of might
Made captive to his will, with fearful bliss.
He saw alone the hidden black abyss
Below, that poisoned all his curséd pride.
He saw a Shadow ever at his side,
And stared around, with thunder-laden brow;
Mumbling, unconscious, still the broken vow.
Fast flew the rosy hours, the mirth waxed high;
Wine flowed, wit flashed; the maiden morn drew nigh,
Trembling, to that flushed seene, and on it laid
One pure white shaft of light, as if afraid
To enter. Lovely women and famed men
Laughed, jested, drank to fairer times . . . But, then,
A solemn hush fell on the hearts of all.
Forth came a Hand, and wrote upon the wall.
Wine flowed, wit flashed; the maiden morn drew nigh,
Trembling, to that flushed seene, and on it laid
One pure white shaft of light, as if afraid
To enter. Lovely women and famed men
Laughed, jested, drank to fairer times . . . But, then,
A solemn hush fell on the hearts of all.
Forth came a Hand, and wrote upon the wall.
Forth came a Hand, and then a gory Head,
And then a grisly Foot, that seemed to tread
Down their mad mirth and even the very life.
A horror, sharp as the assassin's knife
Pierced every soul. Deep darkness on them fell,
While a still Voice spoke with a funeral knell.
—“Weighed and found wanting; tried but never true;
“Gone is thy kingdom; take thy dreadful due.”
And then a grisly Foot, that seemed to tread
Down their mad mirth and even the very life.
A horror, sharp as the assassin's knife
Pierced every soul. Deep darkness on them fell,
While a still Voice spoke with a funeral knell.
—“Weighed and found wanting; tried but never true;
“Gone is thy kingdom; take thy dreadful due.”
It ceased. And loud the Master laughed, and bade
No guests be troubled at a conjuror's shade,
And tricking sounds. “More dainties bring,” he cried,
“Pledge the bright Future, let faint hearts be plied
“With generous wine.” He spoke. And, at this hour,
Still his strong will retained its ancient power,
His words their wonted magic; and, once more,
They ate, they drank, they jested, as before.
No guests be troubled at a conjuror's shade,
And tricking sounds. “More dainties bring,” he cried,
“Pledge the bright Future, let faint hearts be plied
“With generous wine.” He spoke. And, at this hour,
Still his strong will retained its ancient power,
His words their wonted magic; and, once more,
They ate, they drank, they jested, as before.
But, lo! the laugh died on the curling lips,
And the cold shadow of a grim eclipse
Struck; as from plates uncovered seemed to start,
Here a pale head, and there a bleeding heart.
While snakes of fire hissed from each horrid light;
Skulls grinned from flowers; and a blue ghastly blight,
Like wan weird corpse-lights upon all was spread.
The Banquet was the Banquet of the Dead.
And the cold shadow of a grim eclipse
Struck; as from plates uncovered seemed to start,
Here a pale head, and there a bleeding heart.
While snakes of fire hissed from each horrid light;
Skulls grinned from flowers; and a blue ghastly blight,
Like wan weird corpse-lights upon all was spread.
The Banquet was the Banquet of the Dead.
511
LIBERAL PROTECTION IN JUNE, 1882.
The great Oliver gave us Protection,
And he loved it right well;
Though, perhaps from excess of affection,
A head or two fell.
And if one, alas! chanced to be Royal,
At this blood-sprinkled feast;
No one doubted that Cromwell was loyal,
To his country at least.
And he loved it right well;
Though, perhaps from excess of affection,
A head or two fell.
And if one, alas! chanced to be Royal,
At this blood-sprinkled feast;
No one doubted that Cromwell was loyal,
To his country at least.
But the Liberals now have succeeded.
To the sceptre laid down;
And think lightly to tamper, unheeded,
With the kingdom and crown.
They to Africa promised Protection,
And a respite from woes;
But, in some way, it lost the direction,
And went over to foes.
To the sceptre laid down;
And think lightly to tamper, unheeded,
With the kingdom and crown.
They to Africa promised Protection,
And a respite from woes;
But, in some way, it lost the direction,
And went over to foes.
Then to Ireland they shifted its shelter,
Against crime at its flood;
And they swore that the country should welter,
No longer in blood.
They held out to the landlord Protection,
And accepted his pleas;
But the knife of paternal dissection,
Is far worse than disease.
Against crime at its flood;
And they swore that the country should welter,
No longer in blood.
They held out to the landlord Protection,
And accepted his pleas;
But the knife of paternal dissection,
Is far worse than disease.
Now they deem that the problem Egyptian,
Can be watered like milk;
And they offer our latest prescription,
Of palaver and Dilke.
And they brandish the shield of Protection,
That but crushes its friends;
And they boast, in disaster's complection,
Of victorious ends.
Can be watered like milk;
And they offer our latest prescription,
Of palaver and Dilke.
And they brandish the shield of Protection,
That but crushes its friends;
And they boast, in disaster's complection,
Of victorious ends.
O Protection! While ministers blunder,
And add insult to lie;
While the ironclads dare not to thunder,
Though our countrymen die.
And what Moloch is worse than Protection,
For which hundreds must fall?
What is help that gives only rejection,
To the sufferer's call?
And add insult to lie;
While the ironclads dare not to thunder,
Though our countrymen die.
And what Moloch is worse than Protection,
For which hundreds must fall?
What is help that gives only rejection,
To the sufferer's call?
We are sick of this, Gladstone, and you, sir,
And your Liberal ways;
You protect as the wretched seducer,
Protects her he betrays.
We invoke the avenging Election,
For this trifling with fame;
To protect us from craven Protection,
Which is ruin and shame.
And your Liberal ways;
You protect as the wretched seducer,
Protects her he betrays.
We invoke the avenging Election,
For this trifling with fame;
To protect us from craven Protection,
Which is ruin and shame.
512
THE IRISH TELEGRAM.
It was heard in the clubs as a rumour,
And it knocked at the door;
While it silenced the noisiest humour,
Of the rich and the poor.
And it knocked at the door;
While it silenced the noisiest humour,
Of the rich and the poor.
It was whispered with fear in the Lobby,
Like alarming of fire;
And the humbug forgetting his hobby,
Hurried out to enquire.
Like alarming of fire;
And the humbug forgetting his hobby,
Hurried out to enquire.
Then it gathered, in shape and complexion,
To the substance of sin;
It appealed to all human affection,
As it grimly broke in.
To the substance of sin;
It appealed to all human affection,
As it grimly broke in.
It was murmured at first by the members,
As some newspaper craze;
Till ere long the dark smouldering embers,
Burst out in a blaze.
As some newspaper craze;
Till ere long the dark smouldering embers,
Burst out in a blaze.
Till at length it was openly uttered;
And the House looked a hearse;
And the orator stopt, as he muttered
What appeared like a curse.
And the House looked a hearse;
And the orator stopt, as he muttered
What appeared like a curse.
For it seemed to leave nothing for error,
And to catch at the breath,
As the Telegram came in its terror,
With the burden of death.
And to catch at the breath,
As the Telegram came in its terror,
With the burden of death.
It laid hold of the gay and the serious,
And each countenance fell;
And they bowed to the presence mysterious,
Of that murderous spell.
And each countenance fell;
And they bowed to the presence mysterious,
Of that murderous spell.
It went forth in the street that it troubled,
It was felt on the mart;
Every home had its misery doubled,
And sad searchings of heart.
It was felt on the mart;
Every home had its misery doubled,
And sad searchings of heart.
'Twas repeated in sorrow and danger,
For all bosoms it rived;
And fine ladies forgetting their langour,
Then remembered they lived.
For all bosoms it rived;
And fine ladies forgetting their langour,
Then remembered they lived.
It increased in its meaning and motion,
Like a wave that is blown
By the blast of a storm-ridden ocean,
Till it reached to the Throne.
Like a wave that is blown
By the blast of a storm-ridden ocean,
Till it reached to the Throne.
513
It was woe to the chiefs of the nation,
As in mourning they trod;
And the cry of a great execration,
Went up unto God.
As in mourning they trod;
And the cry of a great execration,
Went up unto God.
There are chains for the brute and the savage,
That no kindness can bend;
And when nothing is left them to ravage,
Perhaps murders will end.
That no kindness can bend;
And when nothing is left them to ravage,
Perhaps murders will end.
A STATESMAN OF 1882.
Act I—Ireland.
Proteus.
Peace, peace, at any price, my dearest friends,—
Although it cost us war to gain our ends!
I am your Premier—there's not much to do,
And Chancellor of the Exchequer too;
I would not mind another post—or more;
There never was so good a chance before,
For getting all that really can be got,
Indeed, I'd gladly undertake the lot,
But for ambitious men ... Well, so am I,
There's not a mortal thing I would not try.
Yes, there is gentle John, an honest fool,
And victim to the fossil Clapham school
Of virtue, dupe of Principle and Pat,
And so-called conscience: we have changed all that.
His matter is good stuff—too good for knaves,
Who twist his moral saws to drunken staves;
His manners might be mended, just a bit;
For, like his hat, they don't exactly fit
My polished Whigs, at our high festivals.
I'm sick of all those seedy Radicals,
Save gentle John: they give a world of pain.
There is that lump of venom, Charlatain;
He has the hungry, grim, and wolfish looks
Of the old Cassius; and his hands, like hooks,
Stretch out a greedy grasp. If I could drop
Him now, I would; but he expects a sop,
And it may choke him (that's a comfort!) yet;
He is a friend I dare not quite forget,
And seeks a seat that he can never fill,
Though he accomplish all his ugly will.
I'll give him something—he may sweep the shop,
And ply Reform, as housemaids ply the mop,
And sleep beneath the counter in the dust,
And live upon cold water and a crust.
I'll promise every earthly thing they ask,
And squeeze myself into whatever mask
They choose to make; but if conditions change
(As they are sure to) I shall re-arrange
The pretty programme more to my own will,
And at but little cost befool them still.
Badlaw again has tried to force his seat
Upon the Commons, but to court defeat
By a low trick. With his feline look
He entered, read the oath, and kissed the Book
Of Christ, betrayed once more with Judas kiss,
That had the semblance of the serpent's hiss.
It was a dirty trick; but why seek grace
In one who is but matter out of place?
He did some little jobs, and served, poor fool!
My purpose; now he is a worn out-tool.
Although it cost us war to gain our ends!
I am your Premier—there's not much to do,
And Chancellor of the Exchequer too;
I would not mind another post—or more;
There never was so good a chance before,
For getting all that really can be got,
Indeed, I'd gladly undertake the lot,
But for ambitious men ... Well, so am I,
There's not a mortal thing I would not try.
Yes, there is gentle John, an honest fool,
And victim to the fossil Clapham school
Of virtue, dupe of Principle and Pat,
And so-called conscience: we have changed all that.
His matter is good stuff—too good for knaves,
Who twist his moral saws to drunken staves;
His manners might be mended, just a bit;
For, like his hat, they don't exactly fit
My polished Whigs, at our high festivals.
I'm sick of all those seedy Radicals,
Save gentle John: they give a world of pain.
There is that lump of venom, Charlatain;
He has the hungry, grim, and wolfish looks
Of the old Cassius; and his hands, like hooks,
Stretch out a greedy grasp. If I could drop
Him now, I would; but he expects a sop,
And it may choke him (that's a comfort!) yet;
He is a friend I dare not quite forget,
And seeks a seat that he can never fill,
Though he accomplish all his ugly will.
I'll give him something—he may sweep the shop,
And ply Reform, as housemaids ply the mop,
And sleep beneath the counter in the dust,
And live upon cold water and a crust.
514
And squeeze myself into whatever mask
They choose to make; but if conditions change
(As they are sure to) I shall re-arrange
The pretty programme more to my own will,
And at but little cost befool them still.
Badlaw again has tried to force his seat
Upon the Commons, but to court defeat
By a low trick. With his feline look
He entered, read the oath, and kissed the Book
Of Christ, betrayed once more with Judas kiss,
That had the semblance of the serpent's hiss.
It was a dirty trick; but why seek grace
In one who is but matter out of place?
He did some little jobs, and served, poor fool!
My purpose; now he is a worn out-tool.
[Receives telegram from Ireland.
So coaxing fails, and reason is no use,
Though from the first I have been most profuse
In promises! I care not what I say;
It's easy ever to explain away
Whate'er I said, when I don't it indite,
To something that is just the opposite.
Think you I am at all embarrassed yet?
[Produces a magical cabinet.
Though from the first I have been most profuse
In promises! I care not what I say;
It's easy ever to explain away
Whate'er I said, when I don't it indite,
To something that is just the opposite.
Think you I am at all embarrassed yet?
Observe the structure of this cabinet,
Which is my hope, my harbour, and my fort!
I bought it of the brothers Davenport
For a mere song; the public guessed their tricks,
But I apply them now to politics.
You see, I have a host of ready words
And quibbles, that will loose the strongest cords
Or pledges ever tied. Regard me now!
Just let them bind me with the firmest vow,
The heaviest rope that human hands can frame,
Or with the tightest knot that has a name;
And in a moment, by my magic wand
(Which men call Gammon), I will break each bond
And free myself, and, without scratch or fall,
Prove clearly I was never bound at all.
[Another Telegram is handed to him.
Which is my hope, my harbour, and my fort!
I bought it of the brothers Davenport
For a mere song; the public guessed their tricks,
But I apply them now to politics.
You see, I have a host of ready words
And quibbles, that will loose the strongest cords
Or pledges ever tied. Regard me now!
Just let them bind me with the firmest vow,
The heaviest rope that human hands can frame,
Or with the tightest knot that has a name;
And in a moment, by my magic wand
(Which men call Gammon), I will break each bond
And free myself, and, without scratch or fall,
Prove clearly I was never bound at all.
Attempt upon the Queen! Oh, if it's that,
She has as many lives as any cat;
I feared attempt was made upon my own,
Which is more precious far than even the Throne—
To me at least. It's but one more convulsion
Of the departing Devil—
She has as many lives as any cat;
I feared attempt was made upon my own,
Which is more precious far than even the Throne—
To me at least. It's but one more convulsion
Of the departing Devil—
Called “Compulsion”:
“Force is no remedy!”
“Force is no remedy!”
Yes, Gentle John,
I always say so too; though I put on
The screw at times. And murders were but met
Not with more murders, but the bayonet
Of resolution; craft with greater skill,
Police and buckshot—buckshot does not kill,
It tickles. But it's all alike to me,
If Ireland is to be or not to be!
If they desire, I'll turn, as is my wont,
And to the Land League show the fairer front
Of mildness; we must change with changing times;
I always said, “Why punish crime with crimes?”
So the suspects I'll free. And notice, how
I burst the bond of the most binding vow!
Parnell would treason talk, and Dillon hint
At measures he denied when seen in print;
And then I clapped them in Kilmainham both,
Though to extremes I long was very loth.
I had good reason for this step, you see;
And after all, perhaps we shall agree
To settle something for the public weal—
“By compact?”—No, I care not to conceal
The honest truth from every honest man.
There was a purpose in my little plan
For sounding them, to see what they would do;
There may have been some “understanding,” too,
But not a formal “treaty”—not a bit;
To such I never would myself commit,
I'm far too careful . . . Groschen also went
Unto Berlin, but then he was not “sent,”
He had no more a mission than the fool
Who is his wiser comrade's toy or tool.
And the sole mission, that my creatures fill,
Is blind submission to my sovereign will.
I made another friend, who knew my mind
(Not a real “agent,” nothing of the kind)
A “recommended agent,” who might act
Informally—that's quite another fact!
He did not carry with him Peter's Pence,
But took instead a “note of confidence.’
How stupid people are! How they go on!
If I was Erring what was Errington?
[Another telegram arrives.
515
The screw at times. And murders were but met
Not with more murders, but the bayonet
Of resolution; craft with greater skill,
Police and buckshot—buckshot does not kill,
It tickles. But it's all alike to me,
If Ireland is to be or not to be!
If they desire, I'll turn, as is my wont,
And to the Land League show the fairer front
Of mildness; we must change with changing times;
I always said, “Why punish crime with crimes?”
So the suspects I'll free. And notice, how
I burst the bond of the most binding vow!
Parnell would treason talk, and Dillon hint
At measures he denied when seen in print;
And then I clapped them in Kilmainham both,
Though to extremes I long was very loth.
I had good reason for this step, you see;
And after all, perhaps we shall agree
To settle something for the public weal—
“By compact?”—No, I care not to conceal
The honest truth from every honest man.
There was a purpose in my little plan
For sounding them, to see what they would do;
There may have been some “understanding,” too,
But not a formal “treaty”—not a bit;
To such I never would myself commit,
I'm far too careful . . . Groschen also went
Unto Berlin, but then he was not “sent,”
He had no more a mission than the fool
Who is his wiser comrade's toy or tool.
And the sole mission, that my creatures fill,
Is blind submission to my sovereign will.
I made another friend, who knew my mind
(Not a real “agent,” nothing of the kind)
A “recommended agent,” who might act
Informally—that's quite another fact!
He did not carry with him Peter's Pence,
But took instead a “note of confidence.’
How stupid people are! How they go on!
If I was Erring what was Errington?
A telegram! How goes the Irish game?
No doubt, more heartless murders, with the same
Old bloody story? . . . No, the news is good:
Forcer resigns, who has so long withstood
My plans; because I called his measures rough,
And then refused to give him rope enough
To hang assassins; so he seeks the Shelf.
Go, Forcer, if you will, and hang yourself;
I never loved you, and I feared your will
Would clash with mine; although I keep the Till,
And mean to keep what you shall never gain.
No doubt, more heartless murders, with the same
Old bloody story? . . . No, the news is good:
Forcer resigns, who has so long withstood
My plans; because I called his measures rough,
And then refused to give him rope enough
To hang assassins; so he seeks the Shelf.
Go, Forcer, if you will, and hang yourself;
516
Would clash with mine; although I keep the Till,
And mean to keep what you shall never gain.
Now, shall I give the post to Charlatain?
He would not take it; he's a prudent man,
And loves his person better than his plan,
Though plan he has. But there is dear Trevelyan,
Whose very face would crush the worst rebellion;
And Cavendish.
He would not take it; he's a prudent man,
And loves his person better than his plan,
Though plan he has. But there is dear Trevelyan,
Whose very face would crush the worst rebellion;
And Cavendish.
Yes, Cavendish will do,
A gentleman, and—a relation, too!
[Telegram again comes.
A gentleman, and—a relation, too!
But there is something fresh ... Lord Sloper swerves
Like a raw curate jibbing, full of nerves
And sentiments. So he resigns as well;
Says he might govern earth, but cannot hell.
Thus rats, false friends, and other vermin fly
The doomèd house or ship, that may supply
No longer food and shelter. Let them flee!
More room (and more emoluments) for me.
Who shall have Ireland now? A Royal Prince
Could stop a bullet, and would never wince.
But Spencer's gone, he likes a stirring scene,
And with him takes once more his Fairy Queen.
[Another telegram.
Like a raw curate jibbing, full of nerves
And sentiments. So he resigns as well;
Says he might govern earth, but cannot hell.
Thus rats, false friends, and other vermin fly
The doomèd house or ship, that may supply
No longer food and shelter. Let them flee!
More room (and more emoluments) for me.
Who shall have Ireland now? A Royal Prince
Could stop a bullet, and would never wince.
But Spencer's gone, he likes a stirring scene,
And with him takes once more his Fairy Queen.
What's this? Another telegram? Good news
Again, I hope, from those tempestuous stews
In rebel Ireland . . . O, the damnéd tale!
Has then the devil burst his fiery pale,
And armèd with all hell now broken out,
To reign in bloodshed over the dread rout
Of black assassins? He has got his wish,
But I have lost my soul in Cavendish
And Burke, in daylight done to shameful death,
Though speaking mercy with their latest breath.
Those knives are in my heart! Their edges fierce,
At individuals aimed, the bosom pierce
Of the whole nation, which for justice cries;
For in their death a mighty people dies.
My heart is bleeding. And, O God, I see,
Those bloody stains are on my hands and me!
But there is comfort still, and after all,
If princes pass, the Prince can never fall.
Though individuals go they cannot slay
My politics, which alter every day,
And will outlast a hundred mortal lives,
As the great Type its fleeting form survives,
Immortal yet. So, to tell truth, between us,
I am no mortal person, but a Genus—
At least a species!
Again, I hope, from those tempestuous stews
In rebel Ireland . . . O, the damnéd tale!
Has then the devil burst his fiery pale,
And armèd with all hell now broken out,
To reign in bloodshed over the dread rout
Of black assassins? He has got his wish,
But I have lost my soul in Cavendish
And Burke, in daylight done to shameful death,
Though speaking mercy with their latest breath.
Those knives are in my heart! Their edges fierce,
At individuals aimed, the bosom pierce
Of the whole nation, which for justice cries;
For in their death a mighty people dies.
My heart is bleeding. And, O God, I see,
Those bloody stains are on my hands and me!
But there is comfort still, and after all,
If princes pass, the Prince can never fall.
Though individuals go they cannot slay
My politics, which alter every day,
And will outlast a hundred mortal lives,
517
Immortal yet. So, to tell truth, between us,
I am no mortal person, but a Genus—
At least a species!
And, as time has proved,
I flit from state to state, myself unmoved,
I flit from state to state, myself unmoved,
Coercion now—a Crimes Act! I will try
Force, even if it is no remedy.
Lest they misjudge me and my motive still,
I must disguise with jam the bitter pill;
This nice Arrears Act now comes neatly in;
Commissioners will good opinions win;
And I have blesséd opiates if you please,
That calm yet, if they do not cure, disease.
And open am I to Amendments too
Upon the Land Act, if they only woo
In humbler tone, and take their proper level;
I'd gladly give them all unto the Devil.
Here, as in Egypt, though good people fret,
The Tories left us a tremendous debt;
And all our troubles, through no fault of mine—
Well, I'll give all, but this—I won't resign.
I know my duty. Let them take by force,
And kill my colleagues—not myself, of course;
But I will fool them yet. I'm equal quite
To their most subtle craft, and murderous spite,
Aye, and the direst curse and deepest ill,
(And they shall have it), is their wicked will.
Let Parnell out; he is no more to fear,
Nor Dillon, like the Devil at his ear,
Still darkly whispering what he dare not say.
Let them have all, and go their damnéd way,
Though wretched Ireland bleeds at every pore,
Now that confounded Land League is no more.
Patience must win—they cannot tire me out,
Though I am free to turn and turn about.
They cannot shake the confidence I feel
In destiny; I laugh at shot and steel.
I'll not be tamely pistolled in the Lobby,
While by my side remains one faithful Bobby.
Force, even if it is no remedy.
Lest they misjudge me and my motive still,
I must disguise with jam the bitter pill;
This nice Arrears Act now comes neatly in;
Commissioners will good opinions win;
And I have blesséd opiates if you please,
That calm yet, if they do not cure, disease.
And open am I to Amendments too
Upon the Land Act, if they only woo
In humbler tone, and take their proper level;
I'd gladly give them all unto the Devil.
Here, as in Egypt, though good people fret,
The Tories left us a tremendous debt;
And all our troubles, through no fault of mine—
Well, I'll give all, but this—I won't resign.
I know my duty. Let them take by force,
And kill my colleagues—not myself, of course;
But I will fool them yet. I'm equal quite
To their most subtle craft, and murderous spite,
Aye, and the direst curse and deepest ill,
(And they shall have it), is their wicked will.
Let Parnell out; he is no more to fear,
Nor Dillon, like the Devil at his ear,
Still darkly whispering what he dare not say.
Let them have all, and go their damnéd way,
Though wretched Ireland bleeds at every pore,
Now that confounded Land League is no more.
Patience must win—they cannot tire me out,
Though I am free to turn and turn about.
They cannot shake the confidence I feel
In destiny; I laugh at shot and steel.
I'll not be tamely pistolled in the Lobby,
While by my side remains one faithful Bobby.
Every Day We Change Our Coats.
Every day we change our coats,Every day we sing new notes,
But the burden is the same,
And we only change the name.
Say, what is a mere majority
But “a little brief authority”?
518
Represented now, say we.
Stick to office, that's the trick;
Stick to office, stick, stick, stick!
Turn your coats, and, double quick,
Lick the dishes, lick, lick, lick!
They're “found out,” and we're found in,
So we cannot choose but win;
Party needs, of course, must range
“Down the ringing grooves of 'Change.”
For the Whig and for the Tory,
It is quite a different story;
We stop in and they go out,
While we dance our turnabout.
Stick to office, that's the trick;
Stick to office, stick—stick—stick.
Take their coats, and, double quick,
Pick the pockets, pick, pick, pick.
So we cannot choose but win;
Party needs, of course, must range
“Down the ringing grooves of 'Change.”
For the Whig and for the Tory,
It is quite a different story;
We stop in and they go out,
While we dance our turnabout.
Stick to office, that's the trick;
Stick to office, stick—stick—stick.
Take their coats, and, double quick,
Pick the pockets, pick, pick, pick.
The Government suffered a defeat on the Procedure Bill, but showed more signs of patience than resignation.
Act II.—Egypt.
Proteus.[Taking up his parable again.
“You promised peace,” my friends observe, “but now
The Alexandrian forts are, like your vow
Broken!” . . . But they once more mistake the fact;
I have not broken ever yet my pact,
And never will; nor shall my efforts cease
To pacify the land . . . “But is this peace?
“Peace!” not exactly peace, but still not war;
I always said, I would not go so far.
Let them define their terms: there is no doubt,
War only may be strictly carried out
With notice, when political pomatum
Has failed; and this is the last Ultimatum,
Of good old Granny! . . . They would rather not,
And call these “arguments of shell and shot,
And downright war.” . . It's nothing of the kind.
If they distinguish rightly, they will find,
There are so many different sorts of Peace;
And what they christen War is a fresh lease,
Or altering of the terms by which we hold.
There's Peace pacific—getting rather old;
And Peace aggressive—at the bayonet's point,
When the conditions have got out of joint,
And readjusting need, like a lame wife;
Extremities, we know, demand the knife,
And if it raise at times a little storm,
Their “War” is Peace in its most active form.
Ask common sense; it's but a change of face,
And War is simply Peace in the wrong place.
And though the bearings may appear extensive,
All these attacks are nothing but “defensive.”
Though Gentle John has fled and Tories fleer
At such secessions, yet I well can steer
The ship alone. His sentimental heart
Has ever hampered me in my great part,
Like France in Egypt. Nero burnt down Rome,
To build him up a true palatial home;
They say so, if you can believe it all—
I don't, of course. But still, at Party's call,
We may some day have to perform the same,
And such a bonfire kindle in the game,
As never shall go out!
The Alexandrian forts are, like your vow
Broken!” . . . But they once more mistake the fact;
I have not broken ever yet my pact,
And never will; nor shall my efforts cease
To pacify the land . . . “But is this peace?
“Peace!” not exactly peace, but still not war;
I always said, I would not go so far.
Let them define their terms: there is no doubt,
War only may be strictly carried out
With notice, when political pomatum
Has failed; and this is the last Ultimatum,
Of good old Granny! . . . They would rather not,
And call these “arguments of shell and shot,
And downright war.” . . It's nothing of the kind.
If they distinguish rightly, they will find,
There are so many different sorts of Peace;
And what they christen War is a fresh lease,
Or altering of the terms by which we hold.
There's Peace pacific—getting rather old;
And Peace aggressive—at the bayonet's point,
When the conditions have got out of joint,
And readjusting need, like a lame wife;
Extremities, we know, demand the knife,
And if it raise at times a little storm,
Their “War” is Peace in its most active form.
519
And War is simply Peace in the wrong place.
And though the bearings may appear extensive,
All these attacks are nothing but “defensive.”
Though Gentle John has fled and Tories fleer
At such secessions, yet I well can steer
The ship alone. His sentimental heart
Has ever hampered me in my great part,
Like France in Egypt. Nero burnt down Rome,
To build him up a true palatial home;
They say so, if you can believe it all—
I don't, of course. But still, at Party's call,
We may some day have to perform the same,
And such a bonfire kindle in the game,
As never shall go out!
Old Spain is dead,
Like Turkey; but still Russia rears a head
Of misty menace on the Persian front;
And Bismarck darkly plots, as is his wont;
Italians show how they repay the debt
Of gratitude, and they can hate us yet
But harm us not. And France, with sullen soul,
Hopes for a Dual state in the Control:
A duel were more likely. I've my heel
On Egypt, and I mean to make it feel
That bondholders can fight as well as fret,
And obligations must be honoured yet.
“But are these ruins Peace—the bloody creases
Branded in England's Flag?”—Well, call them Peaces.
Like Turkey; but still Russia rears a head
Of misty menace on the Persian front;
And Bismarck darkly plots, as is his wont;
Italians show how they repay the debt
Of gratitude, and they can hate us yet
But harm us not. And France, with sullen soul,
Hopes for a Dual state in the Control:
A duel were more likely. I've my heel
On Egypt, and I mean to make it feel
That bondholders can fight as well as fret,
And obligations must be honoured yet.
“But are these ruins Peace—the bloody creases
Branded in England's Flag?”—Well, call them Peaces.
Here comes my shop-boy, like a dustman's bell,
Who does my dirty work, and does it well.
What next?
Who does my dirty work, and does it well.
What next?
Charlatain.
The final battle now is fought
And won at Tel-el-kebir, as we thought
It would be settled! Arabi is ours,
And waves our glorious flag on Cairo's towers.
The gallant men did wonders—marched all night;
And favouring fortune proves the folly right;
Then, in the foeman's face, they calmy formed,
And with one rush the fiery wall was stormed.
'Twas a mad scheme, but that should not be heeded:
The madness answered, as it has succeeded.
Proteus.
Thus barren sessions, if they have a root,
May yet with forcing bear some Autumn fruit,
And blind the people. My Procedure Bill
Must law become, and I shall work my will
About the Clôture, and can laugh at fate
When I have crushed the freedom of debate.
520
And folks will have to put up with Verbosities
Vulgarian.
Charlatain.
What of wounded Egypt's fate?
Brave Arabi, of course, you'll reinstate,
Like Cetewayo, and give Egypt back
To the Egyptians. . . . What if England lack?
Let's bravely bear the bitter cost and pain,
As in the Transvaal, and be kind again,
Surrendering all, and face the Tories' curse
With a full heart, albeit an empty purse.
Proteus.
This course may please—if only Caucus prigs;
And I shall lose those patronising Whigs,
With their traditions. Well, I can but burn
My former idols, now it suits my turn,
And change conditions—and they do, you know;
Transition is the law of things below,
And relative are all, both men and nations;
One might have even to sacrifice relations—
Go, tell those stiff-necked Whigs,
Charlatain.
I go, my friend;
But I would never say, of course, you “send.”
Proteus.
Whatever happens, it shall serve me still,
If only as the stuff of some new Bill.
I weary am of supercilious airs,
And social starch, and tramping up the stairs
Of duchesses, till this poor head is hoar,
Because I am a lion and can roar;
Not that they love me. It's too great a tension;
I'll drop them and their jewelled condescension.
What do they say?
Charlatain.
They all resign, and bid
You drive more nails in your own coffin lid,
Which you are making with your madness.
Proteus.
Well!
—But here is something novel yet to tell;
For I have changed my mind again, and plan
To govern Egypt for the Englishman,
That it may pay our little expeditions.
For there has been a change in the conditions,
Since you departed.
Charlatain.
Oh, the bitter cup!
Do you, indeed, at this late hour, throw up
Your truest friends, who gave you all you have,
And bury faith in this poor country's grave?
It cannot be. And yet I feel it's fact,
521
“I and my colleagues” leave you to your doom,
While clouds of shame are gathering round in gloom,
Like winding sheets.
Proteus.
That's good! Now there is hope,
For I have really broken the last rope
That bound me, and ambition's wings can fly
Up to the Heaven of Power, in liberty.
I can discard them, now that things look calmer,
As I did Gill and Charrington and Palmer;
And dead men tell no tales.
For I have really broken the last rope
That bound me, and ambition's wings can fly
Up to the Heaven of Power, in liberty.
I can discard them, now that things look calmer,
As I did Gill and Charrington and Palmer;
And dead men tell no tales.
No boys again!
I'll keep the shop more clean than Charlatain,
With all his mopping. Aye, let him go out,
And talk of conscience when it's really gout.
For I have lived to carry my intent;
I am alone the British Government!
Now I can breathe; at length I'm truly free,
And know how beautiful it is to be,
When all my friends are gathered to the Shelf,
And no one can oppose me but myself—
That's quite enough. ... And I may change the story,
And end (as I began) an honest Tory.
Turn and turn and turn about.
I'll keep the shop more clean than Charlatain,
With all his mopping. Aye, let him go out,
And talk of conscience when it's really gout.
For I have lived to carry my intent;
I am alone the British Government!
Now I can breathe; at length I'm truly free,
And know how beautiful it is to be,
When all my friends are gathered to the Shelf,
And no one can oppose me but myself—
That's quite enough. ... And I may change the story,
And end (as I began) an honest Tory.
Turn, and turn, and turn about.
They shall never turn me out;
Let the conscience pine and pout,
Conscience is a form of gout.
Louder and yet louder shout.
Spoil the landlords, let them spout,
I will clean and clean them out;
Mine be plenty, theirs be drought,
Let them starve if I am stout.
Wield the Clôture like a knout,
On the head of Tory tout,
Fenian rebel, Home Rule rout,
Spare them not one honest clout.
Maddened Manchester may scout
Measures that it can but flout,
Birmingham and every lout
Grow (like dying knaves) devout.
Turn, and turn, and turn about,
They shall never turn me out;
Let the conscience pine and pout,
Conscience is a form of gout.
They shall never turn me out;
Let the conscience pine and pout,
Conscience is a form of gout.
Louder and yet louder shout.
Spoil the landlords, let them spout,
I will clean and clean them out;
Mine be plenty, theirs be drought,
Let them starve if I am stout.
Wield the Clôture like a knout,
On the head of Tory tout,
Fenian rebel, Home Rule rout,
Spare them not one honest clout.
Maddened Manchester may scout
Measures that it can but flout,
Birmingham and every lout
Grow (like dying knaves) devout.
Turn, and turn, and turn about,
They shall never turn me out;
Let the conscience pine and pout,
Conscience is a form of gout.
522
HOW TO VOTE.
Vote for your glorious Church and Crown,
An empire all unrent;
For merry England's old renown,
And goodly government.
An empire all unrent;
For merry England's old renown,
And goodly government.
Vote for the men who reverence law,
And love each holy right;
Who will preserve our fame from flaw,
And keep our banner bright.
And love each holy right;
Who will preserve our fame from flaw,
And keep our banner bright.
Vote for the men who honour hold,
Better than power and place;
Who do not sell themselves for gold,
Nor triumph in disgrace.
Better than power and place;
Who do not sell themselves for gold,
Nor triumph in disgrace.
Vote for the men whose hearts are fond,
Who heed not slander's breath;
Whose word is sacred as their bond,
Who guard it unto death.
Who heed not slander's breath;
Whose word is sacred as their bond,
Who guard it unto death.
Vote for the men whose hands are clean,
Whose purposes are pure;
Who scorn the muddy ways and mean,
And of themselves are sure.
Whose purposes are pure;
Who scorn the muddy ways and mean,
And of themselves are sure.
Vote for the men who will not swerve,
From virtues that have been;
Who deem their chiefest pride, to serve
Their country and their Queen.
From virtues that have been;
Who deem their chiefest pride, to serve
Their country and their Queen.
Vote for the men who nobly act,
What they have nobly said;
Remember every broken pact,
And the forgotten aid.
What they have nobly said;
Remember every broken pact,
And the forgotten aid.
Vote for the men who falsehood hate,
Nor work their comrades ill;
Remember Gordon and his fate,
And black Majuba Hill.
Nor work their comrades ill;
Remember Gordon and his fate,
And black Majuba Hill.
Vote for the men who still have stood,
True to the Nation's trust;
For all that ancient is and good,
The beautiful and just.
True to the Nation's trust;
For all that ancient is and good,
The beautiful and just.
Vote for the men who fear their God,
And prize His solemn dower;
Who tread the path their fathers trod,
To progress and to power.
And prize His solemn dower;
Who tread the path their fathers trod,
To progress and to power.
523
Vote for the men who promise homes
To children and to wives;
For peace to our endangered domes,
Our liberties and lives.
To children and to wives;
For peace to our endangered domes,
Our liberties and lives.
Vote for the happy days of old,
New federated might;
Let England hold what England held,
And Heaven defend her right!
New federated might;
Let England hold what England held,
And Heaven defend her right!
THE MAN AND THE HOUR. (FEB., 1885.)
Lo, the hour has struck for action,
That requires a broader plan,
With an end to strife of faction,
And a hero of a man.
Yes, a man and not a mumbler
Of old sentences and saws—
Like a tempest in a tumbler,
Or a baby pulling straws.
He must truthful be, and tender
As a woman in her love,
And his brows must wear the splendour
Of anointing from above.
He must grandly serve the nation,
Though his person be the price;
His must be the consecration
Of the living sacrifice.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the hero of Khartoum.
That requires a broader plan,
With an end to strife of faction,
And a hero of a man.
Yes, a man and not a mumbler
Of old sentences and saws—
Like a tempest in a tumbler,
Or a baby pulling straws.
He must truthful be, and tender
As a woman in her love,
And his brows must wear the splendour
Of anointing from above.
He must grandly serve the nation,
Though his person be the price;
His must be the consecration
Of the living sacrifice.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the hero of Khartoum.
Lo, the time is for decision,
To remove the withering ban,
That has cursed us with division,
And the man that is no man.
Who has ruled and fooled the nation,
Till it half forgets its name,
And has cast it from its station,
To the shadow deep of shame.
Now we want a faithful leader,
Who despises place and pelf,
Not a petty special pleader,
One who cannot rule himself,
We must have a statesman hearty,
Who can cope with any fate;
Who will not be for a party,
But who will be for the State.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the Hero of Khartoum.
To remove the withering ban,
That has cursed us with division,
And the man that is no man.
Who has ruled and fooled the nation,
Till it half forgets its name,
And has cast it from its station,
To the shadow deep of shame.
Now we want a faithful leader,
Who despises place and pelf,
Not a petty special pleader,
One who cannot rule himself,
524
Who can cope with any fate;
Who will not be for a party,
But who will be for the State.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the Hero of Khartoum.
Lo, events are sternly moving,
While our ministers stand still;
They have failed to bear their proving,
To obey the people's will.
Our repute was high and royal,
They have brought our glory down,
Who have ever been disloyal
To the country and the Crown.
They have dragged our stainless banner,
Through the gutter and the mire;
They have lost the stately manner,
And the spirit as of fire.
We must have a sturdy statesman,
Who will paths of duty walk;
Not a mouther and debates man,
Who can only talk and talk.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the hero of Khartoum.
While our ministers stand still;
They have failed to bear their proving,
To obey the people's will.
Our repute was high and royal,
They have brought our glory down,
Who have ever been disloyal
To the country and the Crown.
They have dragged our stainless banner,
Through the gutter and the mire;
They have lost the stately manner,
And the spirit as of fire.
We must have a sturdy statesman,
Who will paths of duty walk;
Not a mouther and debates man,
Who can only talk and talk.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the hero of Khartoum.
Lo, the spell at last is broken,
And the steed is on the strain;
While it listens for the token,
Of the guiding voice and rein.
For we only wait the mounting,
And we only want the man;
Who will dally not in counting
Just his pennies, not a plan.
He must be like our fifth Harry,
With a heart for every ill,
And an iron will to carry
Unto victory his will.
He will speak till nations hearken,
He will strike till nations fear;
Though the whole horizon darken,
And a thousand foes draw near.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the Hero of Khartoum.
And the steed is on the strain;
While it listens for the token,
Of the guiding voice and rein.
For we only wait the mounting,
And we only want the man;
Who will dally not in counting
Just his pennies, not a plan.
He must be like our fifth Harry,
With a heart for every ill,
And an iron will to carry
Unto victory his will.
He will speak till nations hearken,
He will strike till nations fear;
Though the whole horizon darken,
And a thousand foes draw near.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the Hero of Khartoum.
525
NO ONE AT THE HELM. 1885.
Hark! the winds are blowing shoreward,
And the rocks are on the lee;
But for England fair and forward,
Not a pilot can we see.
And the ship of State is drifting,
Where she has no ocean room;
And the stormy waves are lifting
Her all desperate to doom.
Ah, the planks they shake and shudder,
As they feel the coming fate;
If some captain takes the rudder,
Will he take it now too late?
For the bravest men are stricken,
From the precious help delayed;
And the noblest bosoms sicken,
For they know they are betrayed.
Every promise was perverted,
When our grandest heroes fell;
And when Gordon died deserted,
It was England's funeral knell.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish
There is no one at the helm.
And the rocks are on the lee;
But for England fair and forward,
Not a pilot can we see.
And the ship of State is drifting,
Where she has no ocean room;
And the stormy waves are lifting
Her all desperate to doom.
Ah, the planks they shake and shudder,
As they feel the coming fate;
If some captain takes the rudder,
Will he take it now too late?
For the bravest men are stricken,
From the precious help delayed;
And the noblest bosoms sicken,
For they know they are betrayed.
Every promise was perverted,
When our grandest heroes fell;
And when Gordon died deserted,
It was England's funeral knell.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish
There is no one at the helm.
Lo, the iron bolts are starting,
In the tempest's angry flail;
And the gods are all departing,
With a weeping and a wail.
For the ship of State is drifting,
With her broadside to the blast;
And the sides are slowly rifting,
And is cracked the straining mast.
Not a voice to give the orders,
Not a trump a certain sound;
Though we tremble on the borders,
Of destruction's hopeless bound.
When we ask for swift decision,
A commander for the ship,
There is nothing but division,
Or a lie upon the lip.
Though the flag is torn and tattered,
And is not without a stain,
Though our forces are so scattered,
We a leader ask in vain.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
In the tempest's angry flail;
And the gods are all departing,
With a weeping and a wail.
For the ship of State is drifting,
With her broadside to the blast;
And the sides are slowly rifting,
And is cracked the straining mast.
Not a voice to give the orders,
Not a trump a certain sound;
Though we tremble on the borders,
Of destruction's hopeless bound.
When we ask for swift decision,
A commander for the ship,
There is nothing but division,
Or a lie upon the lip.
Though the flag is torn and tattered,
And is not without a stain,
Though our forces are so scattered,
We a leader ask in vain.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
526
Yes, the shoals are creeping nearer,
And they show their awful shape,
With the breakers tossing nearer,
As if now were no escape.
For the ship of State is drifting,
To the unrelenting shore;
To which many pass through sifting,
But alas, return no more.
We can trust the words of strangers,
We can glorious battles win,
We can conquer giant dangers,
But not treachery within.
Oh, our Gordon, England's jewel,
And the bulwark of the State!
Oh, the mercy that was cruel,
And the help that came too late!
Must the country's pride be taken,
And his butcher darkly stand,
He himself alone unshaken,
And upon a ruined land?
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
And they show their awful shape,
With the breakers tossing nearer,
As if now were no escape.
For the ship of State is drifting,
To the unrelenting shore;
To which many pass through sifting,
But alas, return no more.
We can trust the words of strangers,
We can glorious battles win,
We can conquer giant dangers,
But not treachery within.
Oh, our Gordon, England's jewel,
And the bulwark of the State!
Oh, the mercy that was cruel,
And the help that came too late!
Must the country's pride be taken,
And his butcher darkly stand,
He himself alone unshaken,
And upon a ruined land?
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
Ah, the last sad hour is tolling,
Like a muffled mourning bell;
And the billows fierce are rolling,
While we labour in the swell.
For the ship of State is drifting,
With no happy sign to cheer;
Not a heart with aim unshifting,
Not an honest hand to cheer.
Must we die without a struggle?
Must we fall without a blow?
Must we let the traitor juggle,
Who has laid our honour low?
We will serve a faithful master,
Who will nobly guide and feel;
We can yet defy disaster,
With a steersman at the wheel.
But the wind is growing higher,
And the clouds are gathering still;
And the curse is drawing nigher,
The inexorable ill.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in her realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
Like a muffled mourning bell;
And the billows fierce are rolling,
While we labour in the swell.
For the ship of State is drifting,
With no happy sign to cheer;
Not a heart with aim unshifting,
Not an honest hand to cheer.
Must we die without a struggle?
Must we fall without a blow?
Must we let the traitor juggle,
Who has laid our honour low?
We will serve a faithful master,
Who will nobly guide and feel;
We can yet defy disaster,
With a steersman at the wheel.
But the wind is growing higher,
And the clouds are gathering still;
And the curse is drawing nigher,
The inexorable ill.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in her realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
527
THE WORST CLUB IN LONDON.
Once we boasted in pride, and believed to be true,
That our Parliament Club was the best,—
And the Home of the Commons, to give it its due,
Was a place which no cad could molest;
We believed that but gentlemen there held their own,
Who behaved still as gentlemen must,
And no law save the practice of honour was known,
With no stroke beyond courtesy's thrust;
We believed that the snob and the rowdy and rogue,
Though abroad they might purchase a seat—
And sedition, if elsewhere with traitors in vogue—
Would not find in one house a retreat.
That our Parliament Club was the best,—
And the Home of the Commons, to give it its due,
Was a place which no cad could molest;
We believed that but gentlemen there held their own,
Who behaved still as gentlemen must,
And no law save the practice of honour was known,
With no stroke beyond courtesy's thrust;
We believed that the snob and the rowdy and rogue,
Though abroad they might purchase a seat—
And sedition, if elsewhere with traitors in vogue—
Would not find in one house a retreat.
We rejoiced that our Senate was sacred, and pure
From the breath of the blackguards who blight—
There was one spot where truth reigned supreme and secure,
As our charter of national right.
We were certain the bully, wherever he dropt
The coarse threats of his cowardly mind—
If he darkened the pulpit—yet there would be stopt,
And would leave not his brandings behind
We announced to the world, how the Commons retained
The grand style that had robed them with power;
And the justice, which ran through our annals unstained,
Blossomed there in its loveliest flower.
From the breath of the blackguards who blight—
There was one spot where truth reigned supreme and secure,
As our charter of national right.
We were certain the bully, wherever he dropt
The coarse threats of his cowardly mind—
If he darkened the pulpit—yet there would be stopt,
And would leave not his brandings behind
We announced to the world, how the Commons retained
The grand style that had robed them with power;
And the justice, which ran through our annals unstained,
Blossomed there in its loveliest flower.
But where now is the glory, when foul is the change
Which has fallen as night on the scene,
With the antics and orgies to Englishmen strange,
In their dignity once so serene?
Have the sweepings of gaols, and of gutters been searched
To provide the most pestilent gang,
Who the ancient and awful and fair have besmirched,
With the reek of their ruffianly slang?
Have the back slums of Ireland been vomiting up,
The contents of their murderous maws,
Politicians who range between crime and the cup,
And acknowledge no manners or laws?
Which has fallen as night on the scene,
With the antics and orgies to Englishmen strange,
In their dignity once so serene?
Have the sweepings of gaols, and of gutters been searched
To provide the most pestilent gang,
Who the ancient and awful and fair have besmirched,
With the reek of their ruffianly slang?
Have the back slums of Ireland been vomiting up,
The contents of their murderous maws,
Politicians who range between crime and the cup,
And acknowledge no manners or laws?
For the floor of our Parliament House is defiled,
With the strut of stipendiary knaves;
And the customs of decency wither, reviled
By the lip that conspiracy raves;
And the precincts once solemn as holiest bounds,
Now have sunk to a scandalous school,
Where the volley of low malediction resounds,
And the scoff of the liar or fool.
And though London has many a shelter for vice,
Whence the organised evil may burst,
And the gambler no lack of his hells to entice,
Yet the Club called the Senate is worst.
With the strut of stipendiary knaves;
And the customs of decency wither, reviled
By the lip that conspiracy raves;
And the precincts once solemn as holiest bounds,
Now have sunk to a scandalous school,
Where the volley of low malediction resounds,
And the scoff of the liar or fool.
And though London has many a shelter for vice,
Whence the organised evil may burst,
And the gambler no lack of his hells to entice,
Yet the Club called the Senate is worst.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |