The sun was hot, the day was bright, The statesman found his collars tight; He threw the starchy things aside, And round his neck no choker tied; In summer suit he quickly dressed―― True Paisley cloth, and of the best, Presented by admiring Scots Who gave him presents, lots on lots. “Ah, now,” he cried, in accents gay, “I think I’ll take a walk to-day; The crowd that oft my footsteps dogs, Will never know me in these togs; Not one can recognise in me, The potent statesmen, W.G.!” He first from Richmond Terrace hied, Without policeman at his side; And then up Whitehall took the air Until he reached Trafalgar Square; By twos and threes the folks came out And welcomed Gladstone with a shout; Others, attracted by the sound, In tens and dozens gathered round; Desiring but to be alone, The baffled Statesman hurried on; With eager steps he paced along, But always followed by the throng; He fled from crowded street to street, Precipitately in retreat; And yet, despite the pace he flew, The crowd only the greater grew; And now, though several days have gone, That Statesman still is hurrying on; And strangers in a London street Perchance may any moment meet An old man in a summer suit Endeavouring to avoid pursuit, But vainly; for where’er he goes The crowd behind him cheers and grows. _The Weekly Echo_, July 25, 1885. ―――― THE LAY OF THE LAST CAB-HACK.