Brave, though black Cetewayo, the great Zulu King,
To civilised England they captive did bring;
He sent back the Zulu, where first he drew breath,
Unguarded and helpless, to meet his own death.
“Had I done,” says Bismark, “so much in my life,
As Gladstone has done in fomenting sad strife,
I could not at this day have looked in the face
Of king, prince or peasant of my noble race.”
He has tampered and tarnished his national fame;
He has injured Great Britain in interest and aim—
Caused strife, war and bloodshed too reckless I ween,
Not caring for honour of England or Queen.
He invokes the great gods their rich blessing to shower,
As he stumps our great nation to get into power;
E’en now from old Ireland he cravenly begs,
That she will assist him to get on his legs.
Ode to Bacchus.
Pueple god of joyous wit,
Here’s to thee!
Deign to let the bardie sit
Near thy knee;
Thy open brow, and laughing eye,
Vanquishing the hidden sigh,
Making care before thee fly,
Smiling Bacchus, god of wine!
Thy stream intoxicates my song,
For I am warm;
I love thee late, I love thee long;
Thou dost me charm;
I ever loved thee much before,
And now I love thee more and more,
For thou art loved the wide world o’er,
Charming Bacchus, god of wine!
“Angels hear that angels sing,”
Sang the bard,
While the muse is on the wing,
Pay regard;
See how Bacchus’ nectar flows,
Healing up the heartstrings’ woes,
Making friends, and minus foes,
Gracious Bacchus, god of wine!
Ever on thee I depend,
As my guest;
Thou wilt bring to me the friend
I love best;
Friendship is the wine of love;
Angels dwell with it above,
Cooing like the turtle-dove
Lovely Bacchus, god of wine!
Laughing Genius, a “Good night!”
Yet, stay awhile!
Ere thou tak’st thy upward flight,
Upon me smile;
Drop one feather from thy breast
On the bard, that he may rest,
Then he will be doubly bless’d,
Glorious Bacchus, god of wine!