To our own G. O. M. 'twas the doctor who spoke;
"You'd better get out of our frost, fog, and smoke.
You are now eighty-five, though a wonder you be;
So follow the sun, bonnie W. G.!
Come flit from cold Hawarden, and fly off to Cannes,
The sunny South calls you, our own Grand Old Man!
Take the first _train de luxe_, and be off, fair and free,
To RENDEL and roses, dear W. G.!"
The G. O. M.'s off to the southward--to meet
Not sunshine, but train-stopping snow-drift and sleet.
Yet he "pops up" at Cannes as alert as can be,
After five hours long snow-block, our W. G.
Then fill up the cup to our CRICHTON at Cannes.
NESTOR wasn't a patch on our own Grand Old Man;
May he come back as bonnie as bonnie can be,
For we've not seen the last of our W. G.!
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