Toil, toil, and little for it being now
The sole, sad portion to the sweating brow Which those who profit by it will allow.
What need they care, where flesh is cheap as dirt, How many sing the sad Song of the Shirt!
Let well alone, quoth supple Disraeli ;
Let Right prevail, shouts Gladstone, in reply,
Indignant at the brazen pow'r of nerve
That calls that land well ruled where thousands starve!
CAST We a glance where Russian legions are 'Gainst Moslem hosts barbaric waging war, And Osman, with a pluck that wins applause E'en from his foes, his sword undaunted draws, Till overpowered, he yields in such a way As makes us almost grieve his star's decay. For such sad work the Russ may blameful be, Yet may we hope, withal, in him to see
The heaven-appointed sword ordained ere long To chase the Moslem back to whence he sprung,- A sword beneath whose strong protecting sheen May happen that in Patmos long forseen- A dried Euphrates o'er which Israel may Turn Zion-ward once more her joyful way!
* The Commander-in-Chief of the Turkish Army.
But, leaving wiser heads to solve that quest, Let's turn to France, where patriot and priest Seem fierce contending who that land shall rule, And would-be-wise MacMahon acts the fool. 'Tis no slight joy for Freedom's friends to know His plans ail baffled, and his pride laid low, While France to her Gambetta proudly brings A loving homage seldom earned by kings.
What of Britannia? Has she really sold
Her proud place 'mong earth's powers through greed of gold?
I fear it much-and yet there is some hope
While she has men like Bright 'gainst knaves to cope; And thou, too, Gladstone, bravely girding on
Thine armour where fresh laurels may
A war 'gainst Wrong long sheltered 'neath the shield Of" vested rights," thou'rt just the man to wield. Let lordlings, on "class privileges who stand, Beware the thunderbolts in thy right hand, And cease of their just rights to baulk or foil Their betters far-" the pedigree of toil."
Proudly would I my song link to thy fame, Thou noblest yet of an illustrious name, Stanley! who to the sea from its far source The mighty Congo did so bravely course; A grand achievement, seeming, all alone, Enough t' immortalize the year just gone.
Glad would I be to sing of Dufferin bright, That graceful Ariel, full of life and light, Who late, on slopes Pacific far away, Like to some grand Aurora in full play, Aired his rare eloquence in such a mood As charmed the very "stoic of the wood,"
And leaving those who there would discord brew Ashamed their tactics further to pursue.
But time forbids that on such topics tempting
I here should dwell, the WHIG alone exempting— Our own brave WHIG! who, witty, as he's wise, Ne'er fails "to shoot at folly as it flies.” Armed with the Truth-that true Ithuriel spear- He crowds within the space of one brief year Such triumphs as may make us fondly deem His well-earned fame, like to some noble stream Ever increasing in its seaward flow,
Shall, year by year, from great to greater grow.
HARK! 'tis the tolling of the midnight bell: Old year of scenes eventful, fare thee well! Despite some ugly wrinkles on thy face, To us, Canadians, great has been thy grace :- Barns full to overflowing-that's a fact,— "Hums" in abundance by great Tilley tracked,
"Tall chimneys" gladdening the Mail's horizon, The Globe vain-asking for a sight of one,- Blake to applauding thousands by the sea Airing his eloquence triumphantly,-
Lorne, in the land where bisons breed and browse, With crowds of red men holding grand pow-wows,- Wild 'mong the "lost tribes" finding himself lost, Yet bound to play the fool at any cost,— Vennor triumphant in his prophecies,— Comets in couples racing through our skies,-- Sea serpents of our own, and no mistake, Found quite convenient down in Rideau lake,— Breeze and the bard of famed Niagara river Food for our laughter quite as much as ever,- Grip's humour too, as you right well may ween, The ne plus ultra it has always been! Alas to think that, with so much to please, There should be found some saddening memories,- Alas, that of those stains thy skirts around, The blood of martyred Garfield should be found! Alas, too, that crazed Russia's noblest Czar Should, dying as he did, Old Year, much mar The record left us of thy vanished star! To right the wrongs endured by any nation, Fiends only could suggest assassination. The world is moving! See in Cuba's isle The bondsman casting off his fetters vile; See, in the East-a sign of glorious hope- The symbolled Euphrates quick drying up,—
Greece bravely striving to prove hers once more The patriot spirit of her sons of yore;
In France, Gambetta-Castelar, in Spain Fast circumscribing bigotry's domain,- Italy, too, with no unworthy pride, Mediæval fetters throwing quite aside!
Where'er we turn our gaze, the whole earth through, Dagons long worshipped, prostrate meet our view. When such Truth's triumphs now, how grand the sight When the poor pagan feels its fuller might, And all the earth is filled with Gospel light!
Cast we a glance now on that honoured Isle Whose flag waves proudly o'er our own fair soil, And lo, great Gladstone leading still the van Of patriots toiling for the rights of man! Disraelian tactics scornful set aside- The law of righteousness alone his guide,- That spirit full of Demosthenic fire,
That wond'rous worker whom no task can tire,
That scholar great as any on earth's ball,
That statesman in whose presence kings look small, That Christian God-fearing above ail,—
Small wonder is it that he stands confessed
Of all Britannia's sons the noblest, best!
If all his toils for Erin's good had been His only claim to honour, well I ween It were enough to make his much-loved name Be handed down to everlasting fame.
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