“How many have elected been, I’ve not had time to see?” “How many? Seven in all,” said Joe, And smiled at William G. “And who are they, I pray you tell?” He answered, “Seven are we; Four sit for North, East, South, and West, And one for Bordesley. “This last one, by the bye’s my friend, Who, spite your verbal maulings, Has triumphed! need I add he is ‘A certain Jesse Collings?’” “Collings?” the G. O. M. replied, As he his brows knit sore, “Oh, Jesse Collings; yes, I _may_ Have heard the name before.” “But,” he went on――and he to keep His temper much did strive―― “You said that you were seven, but you Have only mentioned five.” Then straight did Joseph C. reply, “Seven Unionists are we, For to the five you have to add, My brother-in-law and me.” “But you’re against me,” Gladstone said, “I know your Caine-like tricks, So Birmingham has only sent For me supporters six?” “What, do you mean you have not seen The polls?” J. C. replied, “Why, G. O. M., from Brummagem Not _one_ is on your side.” (_Seven verses omitted._) “Nay, nay,” cried Gladstone, “I refuse To own that things are so; “Birmingham went for me!” said Joe―― “It did――nine months ago.” “But you have since brought in two bills So foolishly arranged That your devoted followers To bitter foes they’ve changed.” “But they are dead; those bills are dead; They’re dead, I say, by Heaven!” The Old Man wasted breath, for still Would Midland Joseph have his will, And still exclaimed in accents shrill, “We Unionists are seven!” _Figaro._ (London), July 10, 1886. ――――:o:―――― LUCY. She dwelt among the untrodden ways, Besides the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye; Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1799. Mr. W. Davenport Adams has asserted that the second verse of the above was written by Mrs. Wordsworth. Now Wordsworth was not married until 1802, three years after the poem on “Lucy” was written, and it seems very improbable that Mary Hutchinson would have contributed a verse praising a former sweetheart, even although she were dead. ―――― ON WORDSWORTH. He lived amidst th’ untrodden ways To Rydal Lake[74] that lead; A bard whom there were none to praise, And very few to read. Behind a cloud his mystic sense, Deep hidden who can spy? Bright as the night when not a star Is shining in the sky.