Our Dragon here is a bigger beast

Than LAMBTON slew, or MORE did;

On poor men's bodies he doth feast,

And ill-got gold long hoarded.

He hath iron claws, and from his jaws

Foul fumings are emitted.

The folks, his prey, who cross his way,

Are sorely to be pitied.

Have you not heard how the Trojan horse

Held seventy men inside him?

This Dragon's bigger, and of such force

That none may rein or ride him.

Men hour by hour he doth devour,

And would they with him grapple,

At one big sup he'll gobble them up,

As schoolboys munch an apple.

All sorts of prey this Dragon doth eat;

But his favourite food's poor people,

But he 'd swallow a city, street by street,

From cottage to church steeple.

Like the Worm of Wear, this Dragon drear,

Hath grown, and grown, and grown, Sir,

And many a lair of dim despair

The Worm hath made its own, Sir.

In Bethnal Green our Laidly Worm

Hath made a loathly den,

And there hath fed for a weary term

On the bodies and souls of men.

There doth it writhe, and ramp, and slower,

Whilst in its coils close prest

Are the things it thrives on—"Landlord Power,"

And "Vested Interest."

Now, who shall tackle this Dragon bold?

Lo! a champion appears.

He seems but small, and he looks not old—

A youth of scarce three years.

But "he hath put on his coat of mail,

Thick set with razors all,"

And a blade as big as a thresher's nail,

On that Dragon's crest to fall.

And like young LAMBTON, or young MORE,

He to the fight advances.

Yet looks to that Slum Dragon o'er,

With caution in his glances.

If he make shift that sword to lift,

And smite that Dragon dead,

No hero young song yet hath sung

A fouler pest hath sped.

Now guard ye, guard ye, young County C.!

That two-edged blade is big, Sir!

That Dragon's so spiky, he well might be

"Some Egyptian porcupig," Sir,

(As the singer of Wantley's Dragon says,

In his quaint and curious story.)

If this Dragon he slays, he shall win men's praise,

And legendary glory.

When London's streets are haunts of health

(Ah! happy if distant, when)

And the death-rate ruleth low, and Wealth

Feeds not on the filthy den;

The men to this champion's memory

Shall lift the brimming flagon,

And drink with glee to young County C,

Who slew the Grim Slum Dragon!