“Little Father,” we have suffered long, and sorrowed,
    We the “children” of the wonderful White Tsar,
  Steadfast patience from staunch loyalty have borrowed,
    Slaved for Slavdom still in Peace, and died in War;
  We have borne the yoke of power, and its abuses,
    We have trusted cells and shackles served their turn;
  Nay, that e’en the ruthless knout had noble uses;
      Now we starve—­and think—­and burn.

  “Little Father,” is your power then so paternal
    As in pious proclamation is set forth? 
  If the round earth bears a brand of the infernal,
    Does the trail of it not taint our native North? 
  Ay, we love it as in truth we’ve ever loved it. 
    Our devotion, poorly paid, is firm and strong;
  Have our little pitied miseries not proved it,
      And our weary tale of wrong?

  “Little Father,” we are hungering now, neglected,
    While the foreigner shouts praises in our ports;
  We are honoured, say your scribes, loved, feared, respected,
    The proud Frank, we fought for you, your friendship courts. 
  The golden price of it you hug most gladly. 
    Well, that price, what is its destined end and aim? 
  The indulgence of ambitions cherished madly? 
      The pursuit of warrior fame?

  Your realm is ever widening, Tsar, and lengthening,
    Though its peoples—­your dear children—­prosper not;
  Railways stretching, boundaries creeping, legions strengthening! 
    And the end, O Tsar, is—­where?—­the purpose—­what? 
  The Afghan, Tartar, Turk feel your advancing,
    The Persian and the Mongol hear your tread,
  And an eager watchful eye is eastward glancing
      Where the Lion lifts his head.

  And your children, “Little Father”?  They are lying
    In their thousands at your threshold, waiting death. 
  Gold you gather whilst your foodless thralls are dying! 
    Is appeal, oh Great White Tsar, but wasted breath? 
  On armaments aggressive are you spending
    What might solace the “black people” midst their dead? 
  Of the millions the effusive Frank is lending
      Is there nothing left for bread?

* * * * *

BOUILLABAISSE.

    [There has been some correspondence lately about
    Bouillabaisse, and a writer in the Evening News (who
    misquotes THACKERAY) actually gives a recipe without oil!]

  Our THACKERAY in ancient days,
    Wrote of a very famous dish,
  And said in stanzas in its praise,
    ’Twas made of several kinds of fish. 
  A savoury stew it is indeed,
    And he’s “in comfortable case”
  Who finds before him at his need
    A smoking dish of Bouillabaisse.

  And now folks laud that dish again,
    And o’er it raise a pretty coil,
  While one rash man we see with pain,
    Would dare to make it minus oil. 
  Oh! shade of TERRE, you no doubt
    Would make once more the “droll grimace,”
  At such a savage, who left out
    The olive oil, in Bouillabaisse.