Come flit from cold Hawarden, and fly off to Cannes,
The sunny South calls you, our own Grand Old Man!
Take the first train de luxe, and be off, fair and free,
To Rendel and roses, dear W. G.!"
The G. O. M.'s off to the southward—to meet
Not sunshine, but train-stopping snow-drift and sleet.
Yet he "pops up" at Cannes as alert as can be,
After five hours long snow-block, our W. G.
Then fill up the cup to our Crichton at Cannes.
Nestor wasn't a patch on our own Grand Old Man;