“If you rob a pore man of his lotion, And go turning him out of his pubs, Whilst, half Sunday, he sits on the kerbstone, and spits, You’re a guzzlin’ champagne in your clubs. “Go and ’ang yerself――d’yer――did ye ’ear me? Why you ain’t fit to live with my moke! Mr. Stead says the toffs is all cut-throats and toffs, Go and bust yerself――go an’ eat coke!” A hero has spoken, as valiant A fellow as ever broke bread―― As fly as a cop. He could hammer a slop, And then do his “month’s hard” on his head. He’s a thorough-blown hero, I tell you (Though I fear I’m not much at portraiture), P’raps he’s rough in a tiff, but, good gracious me――if There’s a “Mr. Hyde” side to his nature, Sure it’s not to be wondered at greatly; For Seven Dials air’s hardly otto Of roses. And more――as he’s told you before―― You don’t uphold “Fair Play” as your motto. But let him run loose. Over there, sir, You see a man sit on the bench; Not that one with the pot――he’s a terrible sot; Nor that one that is kissing the wench; But that grey-haired old chap, whose right sleeve, sir, Is empty, and pinned to his breast; And I’ll bet you he says that he’s seen better days. I can see it. That fine manly chest I’ll warrant has heaved ’neath the scarlet, Those grey eyes, so earnest and grave, That look full of scorn, ne’er in plebeian born; He’s a soldier――or has been――and brave. I wonder if, speaking politely, I’m able to somewhat unmask him, To learn ’bout his arm. He seems passive and calm, There’s nothing like cheek――no――I’ll ask him. * * * * * “How did I lose my arm, sir?” (The grey-headed veteran rose), “Well, come, fill up my pot, I’d as lief tell as not,” (And he fell in a “Bagonet” _pose_―― You know――stand at ease――right leg forward The right arm――or sleeve――on the breast-ee’s, The left hanging dead by the side. And the head Thrown well back to give play to the chest-ee’s.) “How did I lose my arm, sir? Ah, that’s too long a story, I fear, Though I don’t wish to brag, it was lost for the flag Of the Queen――and for England so dear. “It was lost, sir, upholding the honour That means to an Englishman life. In the thick of the battle, midst guns’ deathly rattle, One last thought of home and of wife――” Then he strikes. Hark, now “Up guards, and at ’em, Bang! Victory! On Stanley, on! Send a volley in there――on the point of the square, So――another like that, and we’ve won.” See your foemen and comrades all lying On the blood-stained heath, gory and red, Hear the groans and the prayers of the dying And the agonised shrieks of the dead. Poor Jack! What, a drink from my flask, son, And leave you to die? Save myself? You and I, who’ve been cronies together, Have a pull at the brandy. A Guelph