East and west, and south and north the messengers ride fast; From Kennington to Poplar they've heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Caucusian who loiters in his Club When triple-chin'd HARCURTIUS prepares the foe to drub! Too long the Capital hath borne the stubborn Tory yoke, Too long the Liberals have failed to strike a swashing stroke. Betrayed to Tory clutches by traitors shrewd and strong, The banded foes have held it all too firmly and too long. SALISBURIUS and GOSCHENIUS have struck unholy pact, Foes long in dubious seeming, but ever friends, in fact, Devonian CAVENDUS, he of the broad and bovine jowl, Who smiled but coldly ever, now on our cause doth scowl. Cock-nosed CUBICULARIUS, once a Captain of our host, Now chums with bland BALFOURIUS, and makes that bond his boast. Oh, was there ever such a gang, so motley and so mixed, To garrison a Citadel on which all hopes are fixed? Oh, was there ever such a call to strike one mighty blow, To snatch the Capital once more, and lay the traitors low? HARCURTIUS hurries onward, he waves the Grand Old Flag, And when that banner flouts the breeze, what slave so base as lag? GLADSTONIUS at his elbow,--not he the Old, the Grand,-- He shuns the fogs of winter in a far-off sunny land, Nursing his force for the great fray that may right soon come on,-- This is not he of Hawarden, but the old hero's son: There's OTTO, of the brindled beard, RUSSELLIUS swift of tongue, RIPONIUS and LEFEVRIUS into the fray have flung. Sleek-haired STANSFELDUS also, MUNDELLA of the Beak. That CORVUS of the legion, good both to fight and speak, LEO PLAYFAIRIUS follows, and brave BANNERMANUS bears The flag he's fond of flaunting, there gallant AUCEPS dares All that becomes a hero, whilst last, but oh, not least! KIMBERLEYUS fares forth to the fight as others to a feast. "Now, up!" cried stout HARCURTIUS, "Up! and we yet shall trap 'em! Kennington calls, and Hackney, with Fulham, too, and Clapham. I hear the cry of Chelsea, Islington North and West Raise wails that find an echo in this mail-covered breast. Bermondsey and Whitechapel upraise a piteous plaint: ('Wy don't our 'eroes wisit _hus_? We looks and there they ain't!') North Lambeth long neglected, and Wandsworth far South-West, (If I know where these places be I wish I may be blest!) Appeal to us for succour: then Peckham, gallant Peckham, Makes a far cry from her famed Rye. O brethren, shall we check 'em, These brave suburban stalwarts whose home is in the waste Afar from Pall Mall portals, swell Clubs, and homes of taste, But who have Votes, my brethren? Nay, shout ye men of pith, And strike for pining Poplar and hapless Hammersmith!" "Quite so!" cries 'cute MUNDELLA, the corvine chief and conky, "But he who maketh too much noise may show himself a donkey. The Capital seems quiet, Sir, the garrison is still,