“Bird,” I cried, “with voice so raucous—thou who pratest of that caucus
(Which once my highest praise and presidential honour bore)
Know that we’re the Liberal party, and my brothers Dick and Arty,
We are the leaders—we—and Harty. And you shall return no more
Unless your vows and Grand Old Leader you throw over and ignore.
’Tis all we ask for—nothing more.”
“Prophet,” cried I, “thing of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil,
Whether Gladstone sent or lent thee thus to guide me back to shore,
Thro’ that cloud the future veiling, say which way my bark is sailing?
Are our efforts unavailing? Shall I ever hold once more