For, gazing back upon his past,
We could not think his—spleen?—would last.
The chief sat in St. Stephen’s, where
He’d nobly worked for fifty years;
He saw the Liberals crowded there,
And heard with joy their hearty cheers.
He looked at them one winter’s day—
And in the summer—where were they?
And where are they? And where art thou,
O Gladstone? In thy voiceless age