Grey grows the air with the Day's young light. With the carmine of
Morning the cheek of Heaven is rouged. The Camphine lamp of the Moon has
gone out; and turned off is the Gas of the Stars. Yawning the tired
Policeman crawls on his rounds.
Hushed are the halls of Evans.
Where art thou, Belgravia's Lord? Thou pride of the West, where art
thou? Lo! he comes; but his steps are unsteady with Beer. On the sinewy
arms of the dark-skinned Sutton, and Burke, surnamed the Deaf, he leans.
From them he bursts of a sudden, like the cork from the Waters of Soda.
The head of a lion on the gates of Gliddon, the chief of the Divan,
frowns on the valiant Phlaruppe. Dauntless as the brute-taming Van
Amburgh, he grapples with the iron beast. He sounds the "fake away" of
Belgravia. One potent wrench of his arm and the head of the forest king
hangs drooping from Phlaruppe's hand. Knockerless are the gates of
Gliddon! Of its lion the divan is bereft!
The lynx-eyed C 16 beheld the wrong. His dander arose. He drew his staff
in vengeance. He seized the noble Phlaruppe. Sutton, the heavy-handed
son of Africa, raised his arm. His white teeth grinned defiance on the
blue son of Peel. Into the murky waters of the kennel he hurled the
pride of the yard of Scotland. His blood crimsoned the flags. Groaning
for help, he sprang the rattle of war.
Like rockets at Vauxhall the azure force of Rowan rushed up. Their hands
grasped the staff of power. Phlaruppe heard the tramp of their
Wellingtons. He sounded the Lullalietee of battle. He gathered his
warriors around him. Firm as the cement of Pouloo they stood. As a
torrent from a shower-bath poured the stiff-necked sons of Peel upon the
foe.
As the cats of Kilkenny they fight. Like the shop of the maker of trunks
rings the street with the blows. Stained is the earth with the claret of
life.
Battle of the Garden of Covent, why should Ossian, like Robins, the
chief of Garraway's, pen the catalogue of thy wounds? Thou art with the
son of Kean, a calamity of the past.
The force of the Yard of Scotland overcame!
On the stretcher of Ignominy, Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia, was
laid!