But when they picked the foemen up No man alive could tell Which of the two was Cochrane, Nor which of them was Bell! But Bell survived the combat, all in the North Contree And for his gifts and money, they made him an M.P. Whilst Cochrane for his valour Got glory and renown, As much as could be measured Ere the sun went down. And in each drawing office, when the argand lamp is lit, And the draughtsman cuts his pencil, and points his ready wit. When the pupil spoils the tracing, and breaks his Archbutt scale With laughter and with merriment then shall they tell the tale. Whilst the pupil rubs his Indian ink And the draughtsman wipes his pen They still recount with wonder The valour of those men. And still we hear the story――told with mirth and glee, In any West end office, where merry draughtsmen be. ―――― FRAGMENT FROM A LAY OF MODERN ENGLAND. (_Picked up somewhere between Downing Street and Khartoum._) * * * * * But the statesman’s brow was dark, And fear was in his eye, For he saw the wild storm rising Across his summer sky. “The Mahdi, he will water His steeds at Cairo’s gate;―― No Caucus, and no Chamberlain, Can save us from our fate!” Then out spoke gallant Gordon,―― All fearless was his speech,―― “What could a man ask better, Than to stand in the fiery breach; To go at England’s bidding And rend the sordid chain, That binds the desert peoples, For the sake of a Pasha’s gain; To build up out of ruin Order and peace once more; To burn the thongs for scourging, To break the prison door?” * * * * * Alone stood our brave hero, But constant still in mind, In front, foes thick as desert sand, And sneaking friends behind. “Now curse it,” quoth Lord Hartington,[103] “Blood-guiltiness I fear; The sun beats strong, the way is long, And English gold is dear!” “Aye! curse it,” quoth smooth Granville, “Yet will I speak him fair; “And show in my despatches “A Minister’s wise care, “To save him from the bad Zebehr, “And from the Mahdi too; “And praise him, while we leave him “To sink with all his crew!” “Aye! curse it,” quoth Spectator, “Why raise a hand to save “The friends he’s gathered round him; “Let each man dig his grave, “Or join the coming Mahdi, “Or take himself to flight; “We’ll rally round the Government, “And have a faction fight.” Round turned he as not deigning, Those craven ranks to see, Nought spake he to Lord Hartington, To Granville nought spake he; But he turned to the English people And spoke to the English heart, That ever has throbbed the higher When called to choose its part.