A creature far too wise and good
For civic nature’s daily food.
For Salisbury’s schemes or Gladstone’s wiles;
He rates, and rallies, and reviles.
And now cantankerously serene
He pitches into “The Machine,”
Breathing hot wrath in every breath
On Gladstone and his shibboleth.
Having the will, if not the skill,
All schemes—save his—to scotch or kill.