A PROTESTANT BATTLE-SONG;

OR,

PASTORAL ADDRESS TO CHRISTIAN BRETHREN.

    Sons of Freedom, rouse the Nation! 
    Or Britain’s glorious Reformation
    Soon will reach dire consummation! 
      God defend the right! 
    Shall false traitor-bishops lead us,
    Chained to Rome, and madly speed us,
    From the Word of God which freed us,
      Unto Papal night? 
        False example setting,
        Treachery begetting,
        Temple, Halifax, Maclagan,
        Now with Rome coquetting. 
    Mighty House of Convocation
    Thou art not the British Nation! 
    Every warrior to your station;
      Freedom calls for fight!

    Cuba, Spain, and Madagascar,
    Where the Jesuits are master,
    Shout our shame in their disaster,—­
      What shall Britain say? 
    Rome, thy smile is cold as Zero. 
    Drop the mask, thou crafty Nero! 
    Britons! rouse ye!  Play the Hero! 
      Right shall win the day! 
        False example setting,
        Treachery begetting,
        Temple, Halifax, Maclagan,
        Now with Rome coquetting. 
    Trust in God!  His truth protecting,
    Prayer and duty ne’er neglecting,
    Fearless, victory expecting,
      Prepare you for the fray!

FOOTNOTES: 

[32] Born 1851; ordained 1874; died 1877.

XXIX.

VERBAL INFELICITIES.

“Se non e vero,” said a very great Lord Mayor, “e ben traviata.”  His lordship’s linguistic slip served him right.  Latin is fair play, though some of us are in the condition of the auctioneer in The Mill on the Floss, who had brought away with him from the Great Mudport Free School “a sense of understanding Latin generally, though his comprehension of any particular Latin was not ready.”  But to quote from any other language is to commit an outrage on your guests.  The late Sir Robert Fowler was, I believe, the only Lord Mayor who ever ventured to quote Greek, but I have heard him do it, and have seen the turtle-fed company smile with alien lips in the painful attempt to look as if they understood it, and in abject terror lest their neighbour should ask them to translate.  Mr. James Payn used to tell a pleasing tale of a learned clergyman who quoted Greek at dinner.  The lady who was sitting by Mr. Payn inquired in a whisper what one of these quotations meant.  He gave her to understand, with a well-assumed blush, that it was scarcely fit for a lady’s ear.  “Good heavens!” she exclaimed; “you don’t mean to say——­” “Please don’t ask any more,” said Payn pleadingly; “I really could not tell you.”  Which was true to the ear, if not to the sense.