THE RED ORCHID.
(Soliloquy of a Victorious Statesman.)
[Mr. Chamberlain at the opening of Parliament wore a red orchid in his buttonhole.]
Of colour-symbols much we hear,
And something, too, of colour-music;
But here's a sight that much I fear
Will make the beaten Red Rad crew sick:
Red! 'Tis the hue of my old flag—
In days that are as dead as mutton;
Now, with the instinct of a wag,
I sport it still,—but at my button.
It signifies how much I care
For the "consistency," quite brainless,
Which is the Radical bugbear.
Their poisoned darts are harmless, painless.
Judas? Egregious Tanner tries,
In vain, to link me with Iscariot.
What need I care for envious lies,
With S. and B. bound to my chariot.
They'd bite my heel, I crush their head,
And wear their colour in—my orchid!
Red! It will make the Rads "see red,"
They're fangless, though their tongues be forkèd.
"They toil not, neither do they spin,"—
I said, of the old Tory lilies.
Now they will have to work, to win,
And that the Rads don't see—the sillies!
Salisbury's Tories were one thing,
My Unionists are another matter;
My Ransom-Song no more I sing,—
Then I was bowler, now I'm batter.
We have new wickets, smooth and dry,
And one who coolly smites and places,
May, with firm wrist and steady eye,
Outshine the greatest of the Graces,
"The white flower of a blameless life"
Is—well, laid up at last at Harwarden,
Sheltered from storm, afar from strife,
And—other blossoms deck the garden.
Roses and lilies had their turn,
Now other blooms woo sun and showers;
And the Red Orchid—well, they'll learn—
In time—the new Language of Flowers!
Of parasitic opulence
Orchids are types, it will be said,
The difference though may be immense
When the new Orchid's mine—and Red!
