THE LAST APPEAL, 1878.
ONE more importunate
Struggle for place!
One more unfortunate
Slap in the face!
Dizzy's a devil—he,
What should I spare?
Trip him up cleverly,
Fair or unfair.
Never mind arguments,
Tear up his Pargaments
(While the ink's scarcely dry,
Easy is blotting),
Honour and decency
Wholly forgotten.
Talk of him scornfully,
Talk of him mournfully,
Treat him inhumanly.
Arguments failing.
Throw dirt, and try railing,
Spiteful and womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into past mutiny,
Rash and undutiful,
England's dishonour,
While I heap on her—
Won't it be beautiful?
Point out all slips of his,
Sneer at his family;
Closed are those lips of his,
He must bear silently.
Fear not excesses,
Only hit home.
The "Daily News" blesses,
While wonderment guesses
What next may come.
Sneer at his father,
Jeer at his mother,
Is he a Christian?
Nay, I'll go further.
He's not an Englishman,
Only a Charlatan,
Worse than a murderer.
Oh! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful
To see a whole City full
Greet such an one.
Countryfolk, citizens,
Foreigners, denizens,
Greetings combined!
Yet may such eminence,
Spite of such evidence,
By my malevolence,
Be undermined.
When the lamps quiver
Over the river,
With many a light
From many a casement,
I'll seek his abasement;
And for his displacement,
I'll fight, yes, I'll fight.
John Bull's cold glance
May make other men shiver,
But still I advance,
Implacable ever,
Mad from life's history.
This creature of mystery
Forth shall be hurled
Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world.
In I plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
Popular feeling ran,
Over the brink of it.
Picture it, think of it,
Dissolute man!
How can Heav'n wink at it?
It's more than I can.
Dizzy's a devil—he,
Why should I spare?
Trip him up cleverly,
Fair or unfair.
Treats he me frigidly,
Formally, rigidly.
Decently kindly,
Can this compose me?
While his eyes pose me,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through that eye-glass of his,
Malice and daring
Point me—despairing—
To Honour and Peace.
Perish I gloomily
Spurned by contumely.
Soured humanity,
Yields to insanity.
As for the rest—
When my name's perished,
Will his be cherished
By Englishmen blest?
When History has measured
My evil behaviour,
His name shall be treasured
As his country's saviour!
They are Five, by W. E. G. (David Bogue, London).
One more unfortunate
Author in debt,
Scorn'd and importunate,
Badger'd, beset.
Lethe, I'd drink of it,
Die without fuss,
Picture it, think of it—
Manager "Gus."
HARRIETT JAY.
Old Drury Lane, Christmas Annual, 1883.