THE LATEST CHARGE.
[At a meeting in Ireland recently, when Mr. Biggar got up to speak, six hundred ladies rose and quitted the room.]
On their legs, on their legs,
On their legs onward,
All with face pale as death
Rose the Six hundred.
How dare he show his head?
"Rush from the wretch!" they said.
Straight to the street beneath
Strode the Six Hundred.
Forward the fair brigade,
No woman there dismayed.
Not though each fair one knew
Biggar had blundered.
His not to reason why,
His not to make reply,
Best take his hat and fly,
When with rage out of breath
Rushed the Six Hundred.
Married to right of him,
Single to left of him,
Widows in front of him
Volleyed and thundered.
No storm of shot and shell
E'er silenced man so well.
Joe! ne'er his tale shall tell
When near an Irish belle—
Noble Six Hundred!
Funny Folks, January 1884.
The Nineteenth Century, March 1878, contained a poem entitled—