man there is upon earth;
When his axe is well sharpened we all must agree,
He can level a nation as well as a tree.

He can trundle such words from his serpent-like tongue
As fairly bewilder both old men and young;
He can make some believe that's black which is white,
And others believe it is morn when it's night.

He has tampered with kings, and connived with the Czar;
His Bulgarian twaddle once caused a great war,
Where thousands were slain, but what did he heed,
He still went to Church the lessons to read.

A bumbailey army to Egypt he sent,
In search of some money which long had been spent;
He blew up the forts, then commended his men,
And ordered them back to old England again.

In the far distant Soudan the Mahdi arose,
No doubt he intended to crush all his foes;
But Gladstone sent Gordon, who ne'er was afraid,
Then left him to perish without any aid.

"If I," said poor Gordon, "get out of this place,
That traitor called Gladstone shall ne'er see my face--
To the Congo I'll go, if I am not slain,
And never put foot in old England again."

When the sad news arrived of the fall of Khartoum,
And of how our brave Gordon had met his sad doom,
Gladstone went to the theatre and grinned in a box,
Tho' he knew that old England was then on the rocks.

He allowed the Dutch Boers on Majuba Hill,
Our brave little army to torture and kill;
And while our poor fellows did welter in gore,
He gave up the sword to the treacherous Boer.

Brave, though black Cetewayo, the great Zulu King,
To civilised England they captive did bring;
He sent back the Zulu, where first he drew breath,
Unguarded and helpless, to meet his own death.

"Had I done," says Bismark, "so much in my life,
As Gladstone has done in fomenting sad strife,
I could not at this day have looked in the face
Of king, prince or peasant of my noble race."

He has tampered and tarnished his national fame;
He has injured Great Britain in interest and aim--
Caused strife, war and bloodshed too reckless I ween,
Not caring for honour of England or Queen.

He invokes the great gods their rich blessing to shower,
As he stumps our great nation to get into power;
E'en now from old Ireland he cravenly begs,
That she will assist him to get on his legs.

Ode to Bacchus.

Pueple god of joyous wit,
Here's to thee!
Deign to let the bardie sit
Near thy knee;
Thy open brow, and laughing eye,
Vanquishing the hidden sigh,
Making care befor