* * * * *

“Semper EADEM.”

["The position of the Jews in Russia becomes daily more terrible.  An order that they are henceforth to work upon their Sabbath and holy festivals is about to be issued and put in force.”—­Standard.—­“A most pertinent illustration of the falsity of repeated rumours and reports representing in some cases a strong disposition, and in others an actual decision, on the part of the Czar and the Russian Government, to alleviate the miseries of the Jews.”—­Times.]

  Who said the scourge should slacken?  Who foretold
  The goad should cease, the shackle loose its hold? 
  The wish, perchance, fathered once more the thought,
  Though long experience against it fought. 
  Not so!  The CZAR’s in Muscovy, and all
  Is well with—­Tyranny!  The harried thrall
  Shall still be harried, though, a little while,
  The Autocrat on the Republic smile;
  The Jew shall be robbed, banished, outraged still,
  Although the tyrant, with a shuddering thrill
  Diplomacy scarce hides, for some brief days
  Must listen to the hated “Marseillaise!”
  Fear not, Fanatic!  Despot do not doubt! 
  The rule of Orthodoxy and the Knout
  Is not yet over wholly.  France may woo,
  Columbia plead, the Jew is still the Jew;
  And, spite of weak humanitarian fuss,
  CAESAR be praised, the Russ is still the Russ!

* * * * *

A GROUSE OUTRAGE.—­Shooting them before the Twelfth.

* * * * *

“WON’T WORK!”

AIR—­“ST. PATRICK’S DAY IN THE MORNING.” IRISH SPORTSMAN SINGS:—­

[Illustration]

St. Patrick, they say,
Kicked the snakes in the say,
But, ochone! if he’d had such a hound-pack as mine,
I fancy the Saint,
(Without further complaint)
Would have toed the whole troop of them into the brine. 
Once they shivered and stared,
At my whip-cracking scared;
Now the clayrics with mitre and crosier and book,
Put the scumfish on me,
And, so far as I see,
There’s scarce a dog-crayture
But’s changed in his nature. 
I must beat some game up by hook or by crook,
But my chances of Sport
Are cut terribly short
On St. Grouse’s Day in the morning!

With a thundering polthogue,
And the toe of my brogue,
I’d like to kick both of ’em divil knows where! 
Sure I broke ’em meself,
And, so long “on the shelf”
They ought to be docile, the dogs of my care. 
O’BRIEN mongrel villin,
And as for cur DILLON
Just look at him ranging afar at his will! 
I thought, true as steel,
They would both come to heel,
Making up for the pack
Whistled off by false MAC,
As though he’d ever shoot with my patience and skill! 
To me ye’ll not stick, Sirs? 
What divil’s elixirs
Tempt ye on the Twelfth in the morning?