To dig, or not to dig; that’s what doth pest one: Whether ’tis wiser on our part to offer Eight millions――and it is no narrow fortune―― Or fold our arms because we see these troubles, And end the din of words? To pause: to take our chance; E’en so; and by the act to say we’re sick Of all the bosh men talk; and to hear more We cannot bear to. ’Twere a realisation That must please us. To pause, to take our chance; To take our chance; perhaps be fooled; ay, that’s the point; For in the Frenchmen’s hand what cards may come When he alone doth shuffle them! He’d spoil For us the game. He can’t expect We’ll cease, for love of amity, from strife; For who would bear, forsooth, for so long time, The outrageous wrong, the proud man’s triumphing, The being beat, the excessive dues to pay, The chaff of grinning Frenchmen, and the sneers That easy John Bull far too often brooks, When we ourselves may our conditions make, Nor do an odd thing? Who would knuckle down, And pay the piper as we’re asked to do, But that the dread of being talked to death, A fate to be discovered none too soon As hanging over us, quite makes us ill, And makes us rather rest with what we have Than try to get what others owe not of? Thus love of quiet doth make noodles of us all: And thus, though we discern rare elocution, We fickly fail, alas! so to be taught, One criticises till there comes a moment When we can have no finger in the pie, And all through our inaction. T. M. DRON. ――――――――