Last week down our way there come a chap,

Sort o' "Sausage." Lots o' go and snap.

Twigs my Missus, and takes orf 'is cap,

In a (German) gentlemanly way.

"Ma'am," says 'e, "I've 'appy news to tell.

SOL, of 'Atfield (rich old Tory Swell),

Snuffed it recent, to 'is sort a sell,

Leaving you this little Donkey Shay."

"Wot cher!" all the neighbours cried,

"Who're yer goin' to meet, BILL?

'Ave yer bought the street, BILL?"

Laugh!! I thought I should 'ave died.

Knock'd 'em in the West-min-is-ter Road!

Some says nasty things about the moke,

"Won't got fur afore 'is back is broke!"

That's all envy, cos we're kerridge folk,

Like the Tory Toffs wot 'ave to go!

Straight! it woke the Tories up a bit.

Thought BRUM JOE would go and 'ave a fit,

When my Missus, who 'as Irish wit,

Sez "I 'ate Brum Brooms¹ becos they're low!"

"Wot cher!" all the neighbours cried.

"Who're yer goin' to meet, BILL?

'Ave yer bought the street, BILL?"

Missus, she the Shamrock waved with pride.

Knock'd 'em in the West-min-is-ter Road!

Some sez werry soon the moke'll stop;

Not hup to our weight, but bound ter drop.

No use whackin' 'im with pole or prop,

'Cos the warmint wasn't made to go.

Well, it ain't hexact a four-in-'and;

But me and the Missus hunderstand,

If we drive together we shall "land,"

Wich to Tory toffs'll be a blow.

"Wot cher!" all the neighbours cried.

Who're yer goin' to meet, BILL?

'Ave yer bought the street, BILL?"

Win? You bet! with BIDDY by my side.

Knock'd in the West-min-is-ter Road!

Wait till arter August four or five!

Me and Missus, we will take a drive.

Toffs say, "Wonderful they're still alive!"

You shall see that little Donkey go!

I'll soon show 'em wot we mean to do;

Just wot my old Missus wants me to;

And in spite of all that rowdy crew,

'Ollerin' "Woa! Steady! Neddy, woa!"

"Wot cher!" all the neighbours cried.

"Who're yer goin' to meet, BILL?

'Ave yer bought the street, BILL?"

Laugh? We'll make 'em laugh on 'tother side,

And knock 'em in the West-min-is-ter Road!

I found her crouching in the lonely street;

Scarce six years' old she was: Her little feet

Were worn with endless pacing, up and down,

And round and round the cruel thoughtless town.

Her limbs were shrunk, and in her large round eyes

The light of coming madness seemed to rise.

No word she spoke, but sat, a prey to scorn,

Forsaken, friendless, feeble and forlorn.

And, as I pondered on her sorry tale,

One weird, unearthly, melancholy wail,

Broke from her lips:—a cry of agony,

Of hopeless, mad, despairing misery:

Then grim starvation on her little head

Laid his cold fingers, and she fell back dead!

I raised her tenderly with pitying arms,

And in a garden, far from Life's alarms,

I buried her, and left her all alone,

And wrote this epitaph upon the stone:—

"Peace to her ashes, but not peace to those,

Her erewhile friends, the cause of all her woes,

Who fondled and caressed her for a space,

Who loved to stroke her soft, confiding face,

Who gave her food and shelter from her birth,

Who joined in all her harmless youthful mirth;

But, when they went for holidays to roam,

Shut-to the door of what had been her home,

And thoughtless left to die upon the mat,

Their faithful but forgotten Tabby-cat."

Great fighter of lost causes, gone at last!

A meteoric course, by shade o'ercast

Long ere its close, was thine. A star that slips

At brightest into shadow of eclipse,

Leaves watchers waiting for its flaming forth

In a renewed refulgence. Wit and worth,

Satire and sense, courage and judgment keen,

Were thine. What flaw of weakness or of spleen,

What lack of patience or persistence, doomed

Thee to too early darkness? Seldom bloomed

So sudden-swift a flower of fame as thine,

When BRIGHT and GLADSTONE led the serried line

Of resolute reformers to the attack,

And dauntless DIZZY strove to hear them