 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
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.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |