O, strange it seems to me, Gladdy, that ere this year is done
Some thousands of my bravest may be rotting ’neath the sun,
Just like my noble Gordon, the gallant and the true—
But what of that, the Jingoes say, why make ye such ado?
For ever, and for ever, they rave and stamp and roam—
Why can’t they wait a little while, until th’ elections come?
For then you’ll go up, Gladdy to yon House and wear a crest,
And the Russian cease from troubling, and the Jingo be at rest!
J. Arthur Elliott.
——:o:——