SIC ITUR AD—ASTOR!
[The American Millionnaire has purchased Cliveden.]
Rule, Britannia! 'Twas Cliveden's fair walls which first heard
That stout patriot strain—which may now sound absurd
"Yankee Doodle" indeed might more fittingly ring
"In Cliveden's proud alcove," which Pope stooped to sing.
O Picknickers muse; and, O oarsmen, repine!
Those fair hanging woods, Bull, no longer are thine.
Our high-mettled racers may pass o'er the sea—
Shall sentiment challenge thy claims, L. S. D.?
Our pictures may go without serious plaint—
What are the best pictures but canvas and paint?
Our Press? Let the alien toff take his pick.
When the Dollar dictates shall mere patriots kick?
Our hills and our forests? If Oil-kings appear,
And want them—for cash—as preserves for their deer.
Down, down with mere pride—so they're down with the dust!
Mammon's word is the great categorical Must!
The Dollar's Almighty, the Millionnaire's King!
Sell, sell anyone who'll bid high—anything.
What offers for—London? Who bids for—the Thames?
Cracks go, Cliveden follows. What Briton condemns?
Cash rules. For the Dollar-King Bull shies his castor.
Buy! Buy! That's the cry, John. Sic itur ad—Astor!
Booked at the Lyceum Box-Office.—Four nights a week Becket is given. Programme is varied on the other two nights. A simple gentleman said to the Clerk at the Box-Office, "I want two stalls." The Clerk. "For Becket?" "No," returned the simple one; "for me."