THE SONG OF THE TURK IN 1877.

WITH arguments tattered and worn,

With facts long torn to a shred,

The statesman rose in eloquent rage

To ply his political trade.

Stump, stump, stump,

Is this the successor of Burke,

Who, with a voice of dolorous pitch,

Still sings his song of the Turk?

Turk, Turk, Turk!

While the Czar is biting the dust.

And Turk, Turk, Turk,

The incarnation of lust.

It's O to be a slave,

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where women have never a soul to save,

And only a body for—work!

Turk, Turk, Turk!

Till the brain begins to swim.

Turk, Turk, Turk,

Till the audience is eager and grim.

Rape, and outrage, and murder,

And outrage, murder, and rape,

Till stories, long since disproved, appear

To assume a bodily shape.

O, men, with sisters dear!

O, men, with mothers and wives!

These are things that are wearing away

Bulgarian Christian lives.

Stump, stump, stump,

It's not uncongenial work,

To be damning away, with a double tongue,

The Tory as well as the Turk.

Turk, Turk, Turk!

My labour never flags,

Yet, what are its wages? A Nottingham feast,

And a suit of political rags,

A broken party, a shattered name,

A smile from the "Daily News,"

A bloody war, and a future so blank

That my mind the thought eschews.

Turk, Turk, Turk!

On the chill October night,

And Turk, Turk, Turk,

When the weather is warm and bright.

And yet, underneath the theme

A longing for power lurks.

So the people of England show me their backs,

And twit me about my Turks.

Oh, but to breathe the air

Of the Treasury Bench so sweet,

With never a soul above my head,

And Lord Beaconsfield under my feet!

Oh, but for one short hour,

To feel as I used to feel,

When the Liberal Government was in power,

And I was the man at the wheel!

Oh, but for one short hour!

A period however brief!—

No blessed leisure for Power or Hope,

But only time for grief!

A little writing eases my mind—

A pamphlet, a postcard, a note—

Yet my pen must stop, for each hot ink-drop

May cost my party a vote.

With statements tattered and worn,

With facts distorted and cooked,

The statesman may hope that his share in the war

Will perchance be overlooked,

Turk, Turk, Turk!

'Tis vain the truth to shirk,

While thousands of bleeding corpses cry,

"Your pamphlets and speeches have made us die,

And we hope you are proud of your work."

They are Five, by W. E. G. (David Bogue), London.