His hate of humbug, saving such As should to humbugs still be flung, His speeches, void of artist touch, Yet suiting English tongue. His deeper hatred for the gang, Who, prating of some Right Divine, Doom freedom's friends to starve, or hang, Or in foul dungeons pine. Cheer for the Constable! Our foes Find him the nightmare of their dreams; We, the wise Englishman, who knows The Falsehood of Extremes. _Punch_, 1861. * * * * * LORD BEACONSFIELD AS TITHONUS. THE Whigs decay, the Whigs decay, and fall, The Obstructives drag our Senate through the mire; Parliaments cumber earth, then pass away; E'en this one, after many a session, dies; While I, secure of immortality, Take my calm saunter, propped by Monty's arm, Along the highways of the busy world, A noted figure, roaming, in my dream, All sorts of places in my Favourite East, The gleaming halls and splendours of Lothair. Alas for that grand piece of statesmanship, That glorious work, the Berlin settlement! So highly lauded by my chosen print The _Daily Telegraph_. Almost I seemed To its great heart none other than a god! Bulgaria asked for independency; 'Twas granted with a few strokes of the pen. Some people really don't care what they grant. But the strong Russ, indignant, worked his will, Pared down and minimised my settlement; And though he could not end it, left it maimed, The veriest of hashes. Can fine words From Salisbury make amends? Though even yet Our faithful organs in the daily press Are tremulous with praise, weep tears of joy To hear us. Come, let's go; we've had enough Of Government. How can a man desire To mix with Irish members, rowdy lot, Who never mind the ruling of the Chair, But pass beyond the Speaker's ordinance, Which all obey--or ought to, if they don't? A black cloud hovers o'er the Cape: there come Glimpses of dark men we have made our foes. Once more I hear the rumour steal abroad Of an election-time approaching near; And who can tell the upshot? Will the rout Whom I enfranchised not so long ago Shake off the yoke of Tory Government, And bring the Liberals in instead? Who knows? Fain would I get me to the gorgeous East! I wonder how my constitution stands The rigours of this chilly English clime, This so-called summer, wretched, cold, and wet. I shiver by the fireside, while the steam Floats from the damp fields round my country seat, And racks my agèd bones with rheumatism. Place me upon some Asiatic throne, Give me an empire in the realms of morn, Thither I'd hasten from this _bourgeois_ court On a triumphal car with silver wheels. V. A. C. A. _The World_, July 30, 1879. * * * * *