But just in time the thought occurred to me That England commonly commits her course To men as good at heart as even we And possibly much richer in resource; That we had better mind our own affairs And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs. It further seemed a work uncommon light For one like you, a casual civilian, To order half a hemisphere to fight And slaughter one another by the million, While you yourself, a paper Galahad, Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad. The days are gone when sword and poet's pen One gallant gifted hand was wont to wield; When Taillefer in face of Harold's men Rode foremost on to Senlac's fatal field, And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spell Of Roland's battle-song, and, singing, fell. The days are gone when troubadours by dozens Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade, Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins, _The Girl I left behind Me_, on parade; They often used to rattle off a ballad in The intervals of punishing the Saladin. In later times, of course I know there's Byron, Who by his own report could play the man; I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on, And brandishing a useful yataghan; Though never going altogether strong, he Managed at least to die at Missolonghi. No more the trades of lute and lance are linked, Though doubtless under many martial bonnets Brave heads there be that harbour the distinct Belief that they can manufacture sonnets; But on the other hand a bard is not Supposed to run the risk of being shot. Then since your courage lacks a crucial test, And politics were never your profession, Dear Mr. Watson, won't you find it best To temper valour with a due discretion? That so, despite the fond _Spectator's_ booming, Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming. III. ENGLAND'S ALFRED ABROAD. [M. Alfred Austin, poète-lauréat d'Angleterre, vient d'arriver à Nice, où il a devancé la Reine. Il était, hier, dans les jardins de Monte-Carlo. Sera-ce sous notre ciel qu'il écrira son premier poème?--_Menton-Mondain_.] Wrong? are they wrong? Of course they are, I venture to reply; For I bore 'my first' (and, I hope, my worst) A month or so gone by; And I can't repeat it under this Or any other sky. What! has the public never heard In these benighted climes That nascent note of my Laureate throat, That fluty fitte of rhymes Which occupied about a half A column of the _Times_? They little know what they have lost, Nor what a carnal beano They might have spent in the thick of Lent If only Daniel Leno Had sung them _Jameson's Ride_ and knocked The Monaco Casino. Some day the croupiers' furtive eyes Will all be wringing wet; Even the Prince will hardly mince The language of regret At entertaining unawares The famed Alhambra Pet.