The way was long, the voters cold, The Minister was weak――not old; His wither’d hopes and messes gay Seem’d to have known a better day; The lyre, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by the Office Boy; The last of the stop-gaps was he, And which his name was Salisbury. His brethren to the towns had fled, Expecting to be shortly dead, And he, dejected and oppress’d, Wished they were back, and feared for rest. No more on wings of fancy borne He chortled light as lark at morn; No longer standing on the boards As leader of the House of Lords, To nobles young, and nobles grey, He pour’d the Governmental lay: His occupation nearly gone, _He_ felt he must vacate his throne; For many at Election-time Look’d on his policy as crime. A Premier on a touting tour, He begged for votes from door to door, And tried to please the peasant’s ear With tunes that few might care to hear. Et cetera. _Fun_, November 18, 1885. This was accompanied by a cartoon representing the Marquis of Salisbury as the aged minstrel, with Lord Randolph Churchill as his boy carrying the lyre. ――――:o:―――― CANTO III. And said I that my limbs were old, And said I that my blood was cold, And that my kindly fire was fled, And my poor wither’d heart was dead, And that I might not sing of love;―― How could I, to the dearest theme That ever warm’d a minstrel’s dream, So foul, so false a recreant prove! How could I name love’s very name, Nor wake my heart to notes of flame! In peace, love tunes the shepherd’s reed; In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed; In halls, in gay attire is seen; In hamlets, dances on the green, Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above; For love is heaven, and heaven is love. WALTER SCOTT. * * * * * W. E. GLADSTONE in March, 1880. And thought they I was growing old? And hoped they that my hate was cold; And that my vengeful fire was fled, And that my hopes of power were dead; And that I might not sigh for place? How could I to the dearest theme That ever warmed a statesman’s dream Prove recreant so foul and base? How could I name its very name, Nor wake to life its smould’ring flame? In Session prudence tunes the reed, ’Tis otherwise across the Tweed! In Parliament, one’s forced to wear Restraint that one can doft elsewhere! St. Stephen’s needs a smoothened tongue, In Scotland fierce can be my song! Blest he who has a double face, When place is Heaven and Heaven is place! From _They are Five_, by W. E. G. (London, David Bogue, 1880.)