But here my Muse its wings may lower;
Such flights are far beyond its power;
So I will stop the jingle.
Sir, I am much obliged to you,
And I am much indebted to
The Choir and Mr. Pringle.
What Profits Me.
What profits me tho’ I sud be
The lord o’ yonder castle gay;
Hev rooms in state to imitate
The princely splendour of the day
For what are all my carvéd doors,
My chandeliers or carpet floors,
No art could save me from the grave.
What profits me tho’ I sud be
Decked i’ costly costumes grand,
Like the Persian king o’ kings,
Wi’ diamond rings to deck my hand:
For what wor all my grand attire,
That fooils both envy and admire,
No gems could save me from the grave.
What profits me tho’ I sud be
Thy worthy host, O millionaire,
Hev cent. for cent. for money lent;
My wealth increasing ivvery year.
For what wor all my wealth to me,
Compared to immortality,
Wealth could not save me from the grave.
What profits me tho’ I sud be
Even the gert Persian Shah,
My subjects stand at my command,
Wi’ fearful aspect and wi’ awe;
For what wor a despotic rule,
Wi’ all the world at my control,
All could not save me from the grave.
The Death of Gordon.
From the red fields of gore, ’midst war’s dreadful clang,
I hear a sad strain o’er oceans afar:
Oh, shame, shame upon you, ye proud men of England,
Whose highest ambition is rapine and war!
Through your vain wickedness
Thousands are fatherless,
False your pretensions old Egypt to save;
Arabs with spear in hand
Far in a distant land
Made our brave Gordon a sad and red grave.
On Nile’s sunny banks, with the Arab’s great nation,
Brave Gordon was honoured and worshipped by all,
The acknowledged master of the great situation,
Until England’s bondholders caused Egypt to fall.
Another great blunder,
Makes the world wonder,
Where is Britannia’s sword, sceptre and shield?
War and disaster
Come thicker and faster,
Oh, for the days of the Great Beaconsfield!