THE PASSING OF M'ARTHUR.

(An Idyll of the Ninth of November).

So through the morn the noise of bustle roll'd

About the precincts of the Mansion House,

Until at last M'Arthur, the Lord Mayor,

Was with his Secretary left alone.

Then Mayor M'Arthur to Sir Soulsby spake:

"The sequel of to-day doth terminate

The goodliest series of civic jaunts

Whereof my mind holds record. Of a truth,

It was a glorious time! I think that I

Shall never more, in any future year,

Delight my soul with welcoming to feasts,

And taking chairs, as in the year just gone;

For my Chief Magistracy perisheth.

But now delay not! to the window run,

Watch what thou see'st, and lightly bring me word."

Then did the bold Sir Soulsby answer make:

"No call have I to follow thy behest;

Look for thyself—thine eyes are good as mine!"

To whom replied M'Arthur, much in wrath:

"Ah, miserable and unkind, and untrue,

Ungrateful Secretary! Woe is me!

Authority forgets the late Lord Mayor,

When he lies widow'd of official pow'r

That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art;

Thou think'st with thine old master to have done,

And wouldst neglect him for the new forthwith.

Yet, for a man may fail in duty once

And presently repent him, get thee hence:

But if thou spare to go and bring me word,

I will arise and clout thee with my hands."

Then quickly rose Sir Soulsby, and he ran

To the great window by the street, and cried:

"Your lordship, I perceive a gallant coach,

Drawn by four glossy horses, waits below,

With well-fed coachman sitting on the box.

And gold-laced lackeys hanging on behind."

Then groaned M'Arthur, "Take me to the coach,"

So to the coach they came. There lackeys three

Leap'd to the ground, and seized his Lordship's arms,

And hitch'd him up, and closely shut the door.

Then loudly did the bold Sir Soulsby cry:

"Ah! my Lord Mayor M'Arthur, dost thou go?

Shall I not show my sorrow in my eyes?

For now I see thy glorious time is dead,

When every morning brought some famous scheme,

And every scheme resulted in success.

Such time hath not been since I first became,

A sort of fixture in the Mansion House.

But now thy term of office hath expired,

And I no longer serving thee, must stay

To travail 'mong new faces, other minds."

Slowly M'Arthur answer'd from the coach:

"The old Mayor changeth, yielding place to new,

Lest one good citizen have all the fun.

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

My reign is o'er, nor may it do thee harm

If thou dost never see my face again.

But now farewell. I am going a long way

With these thou see'st—if, indeed, we can

(For narrow and becrowded is the route)—

Before the new Lord Mayor to Westminster,

Where many worthies are awaiting us;

Thence the brave Show must citywards return

To be dissolved at the famed Guildhall,

And I at length in limbo shall repose—

Limbo of Aldermen who've passed the chair."

So said he; and the gallant coach-and-four

Moved off, like some prodigious equipage

That seems quite natural in pantomime,

But strange in real life. Sir Soulsby stood

Long meditating, till the gold cock'd hats

Those lackeys wore, looked like a single spark,

And down Cheapside the cheering died away.

The St. James's Gazette, November 9, 1881.