["Lord ROSEBERY is not a man at all: he is a political Joint-Stock
Company, _Limited_."--_Letter from Mr. Chamberlain in the "Times."_]
Oh, CHAMBERLAIN, with joy I note the labour of the file
In this delightful sample of your literary style.
I seem to see you trying it in half a hundred ways,
Before your taste could settle on the perfect final phrase.
With just a little polish here, a slight erasure there,
You got it into shape at last, and made your copy fair.
Lo, how its graceful suavity all meaner folk rebukes,
In every little word I trace the influence of dukes;
The gallant style, the courtly thrust with controversial sword
Of one--what need to tell his name?--who dearly loves a lord;
Who learnt amid our feudal halls the ancient courtesy
That scorns to stoop to Billingsgate, or ape the bold bargee.
Serene and proud he follows still the good old maxim's plan,
And by his manners proves himself to all the world a Man.
* * * * *
Solution of Prize Conundrum given in our Last Week's Issue.
"How to make life happy by adding fifty-nine to the latter half of it."
The latter half of "_Life_" is "_fe_," isn't it?
Fifty-nine is "LIX," isn't it? Add this to FE, and the result is
happy--"FELIX."
[⁂ The Conundrumist left the explanation and the country at the same
time.--ED.]
[Illustration: THE FORCE OF HABIT.
_The Vicar's Daughter._ "OH, PAPA DEAR, _DID_ YOU HEAR OLD MR. ROGERS
SNORING IN HIS PEW THIS AFTERNOON?"
_The Vicar._ "NO, MY LOVE. DURING THE _SERMON_, I SUPPOSE?"
_The Vicar's Daughter._ "NO! THAT'S THE FUNNY PART OF IT!"]
***
"LYING LOW."
["The CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER has preserved, with admirable
composure, an oracular silence during the controversies of the past
few weeks. It is sad to think that the despairing appeals of the
Ministerial Press to Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT to 'remember his swashing
blow' may remain unanswered until the opening of the debate on the
Address some two months hence."--_The Times._]
"Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.
Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the haycock, fast asleep(?)"
_Old Nursery Rhyme._
_Much worrited Old Liberal Party loquitur:_--
O little Boy Blue!--('tis a sweet name for _you_,
Though Pickwickian, perhaps, in suggestiveness!)--
What are you a-doing? There's mischief a-brewing,
Our flocks appear troubled with restiveness;
Our cattle are straying. You ought to be playing
That horn with your old force and unction.
Of what are you thinking? In long forty-winking
Boy Blue seems forgetting his function!
You're not worth a button! That Forfarshire mutton
The Unionist meadow is munching in;
Our bonny Brigg cow, boy, now can't you see how, boy,
The Tory corn-field she is crunching in?
You are losing your sheep, like poor little Bo-Peep,
And still that old horn lies unblown, boy.
You're letting them roam, and _they_ will not "come home"
If you do nought but "let them alone," boy!
Still drowsing! Oh, drat it! Young PRIMROSE is at it
Without half your power of bellows.
And cynics are hinting that, while he is sprinting,
You're lazy--because you feel jealous.
Of course, that's all footle. Still, your rootle-tootle
Is wanted our courage to toughen.
'Twas never your habit, like artful Brer Rabbit,
Of old to "lie low and say nuffin'!"
Your horn, like great ROLAND'S, through high lands and low lands,
From Lincoln to Scotland, should blare up.
We need its loud rallies, or _our_ Roncesvallês
Will come,--when there _will_ be a flare-up!
'Tis surely not rifted? When ROLAND uplifted
His Olifant, everyone heard it
For thirty miles round. So your sheep-horn should sound,
And too long, my Boy Blue, you've deferred it.
Their noses foes may cock, whilst under that haycock
At Malwood at ease you're reclining.
Poor PRIMROSE, our shepherd, is getting will peppered,
The flock for your rally are pining.
You are only Boy Blue, not the shepherd? That's true;
Still, horn-blowing boys have their duty.
Wake up, and wake _now_, Sir, and give us a rouser.
Your best blast, we know, is a beauty!
Our fold's getting thinnish, our flocks fast diminish,
Our milch-cows are sickening or straying.
Up! back up the _pastor_, or there'll be disaster.
The enemy's sheep-horns are braying;
_They_'re "calling the cattle home." Rouse, with a rattle-home!
Asleep? Well, perhaps you're "purtending"!
But though one may easily play up _too_ weaselly,
Sheep _do_ demand watchful tending.
* * * * *