I can laugh at Punch and Judy, And enjoy a book from Mudie; I am spick and span and dudey, And I freely spend my scudi, And I feel that I could fly. I’ve a bearing that is regal, All my acts are strictly legal, And I’ll wager that an eagle, Though he’d taken Mother Seigel, Couldn’t show as clear an eye. So in market-place or forum, If you’re dull, my cockalorum, Never heed the censor morum, But just brew yourself a jorum, In a beaker or a cup, Of this stimulating liquor, Which, when life begins to flicker, And your soul grows slowly sicker, And you feel a bucket-kicker, Is a patent pick-me-up. Ad Cor Meum. O heart, my heart, that faintly flutters And sinks within my coward breast At every sound a demon utters-- The demon of a wild unrest-- What poison is it in you lurking That taints the rich red stream of life, And leaves your trembling owner shirking The storm and stress of daily strife? The skies are black as Night’s dark daughters, The Haven’s far, and fierce the sea; Ill-omened birds above the waters Fly low and shriek with evil glee. O, sinking heart, to hope a traitor, If through the storm’s the peace we prize, Bid me sail on--the risk is greater For him who here at anchor lies. Beat, heart, again with brave endeavour; Beat, heart, with faith in God’s right hand, Stretched out to those who ask it ever To lead them to the Promised Land. Mine eyes to earth no more inclining, I watch the storm that clears the sky; Who’d see the sun in splendour shining Must boldly fix his gaze on high. Ichabod. Write it up with falt’ring fingers, Write it with a blush of shame, Since no ray of glory lingers ’Mid the temples of our fame. O’er a Christian Church blaspheming, Which has dragged the name of God Through the mire of party scheming, Write the legend “Ichabod.” Write it where our peers assemble, Dullards decked in solemn state, Though their sires made Europe tremble In the days when we were great. Peers to-day the land encumber, Lazy lords no spur can prod; O’er the House where now they slumber Write the legend “Ichabod.” Shrined in History’s grandest pages Are the deeds of those who bent Tyrant kings in kingly rages To the will of Parliament. Now but placemen, bores, and traitors Tread the halls that Hampden trod; O’er the House of idle praters Write the legend “Ichabod.” Once old England’s pride and glory Was that all her sons were free; Ah, to-day how changed the story! Where is now our liberty? Cranks and faddists forge our fetters, Every day we feel the rod, “Grandmamma” in sampler letters Works o’er England “Ichabod.”