Ye Gentlemen of England,
    Whom once he did deride,
  How safe ye are, and how serene,
    With JOSEPH on your side. 
  He talks no more of “Ransom”
    (’Tis P-e-n-s-i-o-n rather now),
  Brum JOE will not go
    Where the Hawarden winds do blow;
      Where HARCOURT thunders loud and long,
      And Gladstonians blare and blow.

  The Orchid from his button
    JOE’s willing to displace,
  To take the Primrose posy
    That’s proffered by Her Grace. 
  O gentle dame and dainty,
    What man could answer “No!”
  As you prest to his breast
    The most blessed flowers that blow,
      The blossoms loved by BEACONSFIELD
      The bravest blooms that blow?

  O (Brummagem) Tory Beauty,
    ’Tis yours to consecrate
  The holiest Alliance
    Our land hath seen of late. 
  Shall he reject its symbol,
    Or answer “Not for JOE!”? 
  Nay, sweet girl, such a churl
    Were no “Gentleman” you know;
      And JOE is “quite the Gentleman,”
      Brum BRUMMEL in full blow!

  Then courage, all brave Unionists,
    And never be afraid
  Whilst Brummagem Republican
    Is witched by Primrose Maid. 
  There is soft fascination
    In radiant rank, we know;
  And a posy, though primrosy,
    From soft hands makes soft hearts glow,
      Lilies—­though they toil not nor spin
      Are beauteous—­in full blow!

[Footnote 1:  Mr. CHAMBERLAIN was once reported to have congratulated himself upon his co-operation with “English Gentlemen.”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Chappie (after missing his fourth Stag, explains).  “AW—­FACT IS, THE—­AW—­WAVING GRASS WAS IN MY WAY.”

Old Stalker. “HOOT, MON, WAD YE HAE ME BEING OUT A SCYTHE?”]

* * * * *

LORD LYTTON.

BORN NOV. 8, 1831.  DIED NOV. 24, 1891.

  Were clever wise, were grandiose great,
  How many a servant of the State
    Had left a more enduring name. 
  But all is not for all; ’tis far
  From flaming meteor to fixed star,
    From notoriety to fame.

  Picturesque son of brilliant sire,
  It wanted but the touch of fire
    Prometheus only knows to bring
  The flame divine in him to wake
  Who moved our plaudits when he spake,
    But stirred no passion when he’d sing.

  The Orient pageantry he loved,
  The histrio not the hero moved,
    The dilettante not the sage. 
  Hence in our England’s East his hand
  Turned, in a story sternly grand,
    A motley mock-heroic page.

  He by the Seine found fitter place
  For courtly wit and modish grace,
    Than by the Indus.  There right well
  His facile talent served his Chief;
  And England hears with genuine grief
    That sudden-sounding passing bell.