For fatherland, a town, for public, all Who at one time could hear the herald bawl: For him barbarians beyond his gate Were lower beings, of a different date; He never thought on such to spend his rhymes, And if he did, they never read the _Times_. Now all is changed, on this side and on that, The Herald's learned to print and pass the hat; His tone is so much raised that, far or near, All with a sou to spend his news may hear,-- And who but, far or near, the sou affords To learn the worst of foreigners and lords! So comes the Pressman's heaven on earth, wherein One touch of hatred proves the whole world kin-- "Our rulers are the best, and theirs the worst, Our cause is always just and theirs accurst, Our troops are heroes, hirelings theirs or slaves, Our diplomats but children, theirs but knaves, Our Press for independence justly prized, Theirs bought or blind, inspired or subsidized. For the world's progress what was ever made Like to our tongue, our Empire and our trade?" So chant the nations, till at last you'd think Men could no nearer howl to folly's brink; Yet some in England lately won renown By howling word for word, but upside down. But where, you cry, could poets find a place (If poets we possessed) in this disgrace? {222} Mails will be mails, Reviews must be reviews, But why the Critic with the Bard confuse? Alas! Apollo, it must be confessed Has lately gone the way of all the rest. No more alone upon the far-off hills With song serene the wilderness he fills, But in the forum now his art employs And what he lacks in knowledge gives in noise. At first, ere he began to feel his feet, He begged a corner in the hindmost sheet, Concealed with Answers and Acrostics lay, And held aloof from Questions of the Day. But now, grown bold, he dashes to the front, Among the leaders bears the battle's brunt, Takes steel in hand, and cheaply unafraid Spurs a lame Pegasus on Jameson's Raid, Or pipes the fleet in melodrama's tones To ram the Damned on their Infernal Thrones. Sure, Scriblerus himself could scarce have guessed The Art of Sinking might be further pressed: But while these errors almost tragic loom The Indian Drummer has but raised a boom. "So well I love my country that the man Who serves her can but serve her on my plan; Be slim, be stalky, leave your Public Schools To muffs like Bobs and other flannelled fools; The lordliest life (since Buller made such hay) Is killing men two thousand yards away; {223} You shoot the pheasant, but it costs too much And does not tend to decimate the Dutch; Your duty plainly then before you stands, Conscription is the law for seagirt lands; Prate not of freedom! Since I learned to shoot I itch to use my ammunition boot."