We thought, as we left with a silent tread, Of Cross and his dreadful Water, That the Liberals would soon be seen there instead, And we far away from that quarter. Lightly they'll talk of us when we have gone, And of course they've a right to abuse us; But little we'd care if they'd let us keep on In our places and wouldn't refuse us. But scarce had our sad hearts aching done. When again to the fight we were guided; And we knew that the foe had a victory won, That our fate was indeed decided. Slowly and sadly we all went down With the blood of our brethren all gory; But our sun at Midlothian has now gone down, So farewell to the hopes of the Tory. Another parody on the same subject by Mr. James Robinson, of 59, Lyal Road, North Bow, was also inserted:-- Not a sigh was heard, not a tear-drop fell, As its corpse from the hustings we hurried; But we felt more anxious than tongue can tell To get the thing decently buried. With a woodcutter's help we dug it a grave-- (It was deep and contained some water)-- All willingly helped, and the sexton gave An address on its deeds of slaughter. With a "brilliant" lie we bedecked its breast, In a "cloak of deceit" we wound it, So it lay like a hypocrite taking its rest, With its weapons all around it. Brief and stern was the service said, In its own peculiar lingo; By a Hebrew scribe was a chapter read From the gospel according to Jingo. Lightly we'll speak of the Ministry gone. Nor o'er its cold ashes upbraid it, We'll forgive a good deal if it only sleeps on In the dishonoured past where we've laid it. The Editor added the following remarks:-- "Among the numerous parodies of 'The Burial of Sir John Moore' there are some, faulty in parts, in which there are remarkably vigorous verses. One competitor, for instance, treating Jingo as a personality, says:-- 'No well-bunged beer-cask confined his breast, Nor in cerement white we bound him; But he lay 'neath a water-butt, taking his rest, With a pool of that liquid around him.' Another winds up thus:-- 'Smiling and gladly we toppled him down, That image of humbug so gory; We wrote but one line--'Here, under this stone, _Lies_ bombast, false glitter, and glory.' And a third is particularly energetic in his speculations as to the behaviour of the Premier on hearing of the defeat of his policy:-- 'He thought, as he holloa'd aloud in bed, And pommelled his lonely pillow, He was pitching away into Gladstone's head; And his fury was like the billow.'" THE BURIAL OF THE MASHER.