Quo’ the scribe in high chagrin,
“Dost think from the face of thy faithful clerk
That his mother him bore yestreen?
“O many’s the chiel taking notes I have known
And many a one sent back
With the saut, saut scent of the red herring
Drawn featly across his track.”
“’Tis well, ’tis well,” Lord Rosebery cried,
“’Tis well that the rogues should stray.
But tell me, my scribe, what think they of us?