Raise the voice, and swell the cry! The cry of sweet Hibernia’s woe; From Asia myriad tongues reply, And Afric bears a burden low. Hear the wind, and hear the wave! That bear the stifled wail of Cypriote slave: Mingled with vexed Bulgaria’s murmurs hoarse, Plaints of the yet unburied corse, All――all in fearful unison combine: “Thine was the hand that struck, the voice that doomed us thine!” Count we the hoarded gold, Tell out the augmented store! Stripped of renown, we yet have wealth behind―― Void is the chest. No more, Where countless millions rolled, Aught but thy bills shall future rulers find. Men of Midlothian! ever shrewd and keen, These are your wasted goods, your fruitless toil, The life-blood wrung alike from great and mean Squandered in titles, or a trickster’s spoil! The mild Hindoo, the brave Zulu, To vex and harass these we waste; But prostrate trade, and bills unpaid, Naught of the wild profusion taste; While venal voters of the false Buccleuch Quell our indignant voice, and mask our utterance true, More might have followed; but he felt it rain, Hailed the first cab, and left by special train. APIS MATINA. (H. PATTINSON.) _The World._ December 17, 1879. ―――― GLADSTONE IN MIDLOTHIAN. “Plague upon thee, Earl of B―――― Bad luck attend thy servile crew, Though gull’d awhile, they bend the knee In worship of a wily Jew! Inscrutability, nor sham Veil’d in a wealth of brilliant epigram, Shall prop for long thy fast-decaying power, Or stave off Dissolution’s dreaded hour!” Such were the words that fill’d with wild despair The ruling Tories and their ductile lambs, Indignant Dizzy raved and tore his hair, As to his chums he read the telegrams. Stout Stafford stared――his senses in a mist―― “What cheek!” cried angry Cross, and clench’d his brawny fist!