From Cashmere’s icy mountains, From Bombay’s coral strand, Where Cawnpore’s sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many a Punjab river, From groves where fire-flies flame, To make us Russians shiver, The Indian regiments came. In ships across the ocean, The dusky warrior steam’d. ’Twas Beaconsfield’s own notion, And this is what he dream’d: That at the apparition Of cut-throats such as these, My master would petition For mercy on his knees. Yes, he was so benighted This Earl, who governs you, To think we should be frighted, At his assorted crew. Sensation, too, sensation! That also was his game; And o’er the British nation The Jingo spirit came. Tell, his’try, tell the story, Whilst future ages jeer, Of how to gain fresh glory He brought these Indians here. And how, when once at Malta, They back again were sped; Whilst England paid for carriage A hundred pounds per head! _Truth Christmas Number._ December 1879. ―――― TO ENGLISH WOMEN MISSIONARIES. From Greenland’s icy mountains, From India’s coral strand, Comes no distinct appealing For England’s helping hand; The poor benighted savage Compelled unclothed to dwell, Without our cost-price Bibles Enjoys life very well. What though the spicy breezes Are very nice and dry, And every prospects pleases A missionary eye? In vain with lavish kindness The Gospel tracts are strewn, The heathen in his blindness Does better left alone. A happy, soulless creature, He lives his little day; Directly on conversion, It seems, ensues decay. Why seek the cheerful heathen To tell him he is vile? Ah, leave him gay and godless Upon his palmy isle. * * * * * From England’s greatest city, Through all her pomp and pride, One bitter cry rings ever, Unsilenced, undenied: From Stepney’s crowded alleys, From Bethnal Green’s close lanes, Men call us to deliver Souls from the Devil’s chains. O women! sister women―― Do _you_ not hear the cry Of these who sin and suffer―― Are damned in life, and die: Of these whose lives are withered, Whose youth is trampled down, The victims and the scourges Of every Christian town? By life that is――and is not―― By life that is to be, By baby lips yet speechless, By all life’s misery―― They call: their lives adjure you By all your lives hold dear―― What _foreign_ mission calls you? Your mission work is _here_! E. NESBIT. _The Weekly Dispatch._ July 10, 1887. ―――― A NEW WAR SONG.