ed by the gazer, sang straight at the aged
owner of the wonderful eyes:--

"They were no conscripts Marlbro' led,
But freemen--Volunteers,
A free-born race from fathers bred
That won for us Poictiers;
No conscript names were on the roll--
All heroes dead and gone--
That blazoned bright on Victory's scroll
The name of Wellington:
And Inkerman's immortal height
Will tell for many a day
How sternly sons of Freedom fight,
Let odds be what they may.
Thus Liberty scorns vain alarms,
And answers back with cheers!
_No conscript legions flogged to arms
Have yet flogged Volunteers!_"

Then the masking hand was removed, and the face of Mr. Gladstone was
revealed. The sight of him seemed to stimulate the singer, an
enthusiastic Conservative, and as he gave forth the last verse, with
singular effect, his eyes so filled with tears that he could hardly see
the piano keys:--

"They think to crush old England,
And take her mighty place!
When they wipe out from ev'ry land
The language of her race;
When Justice meekly sheathes her sword,
And Freemen ne'er make laws;
When Tyrants rule by force and fraud
And dead is Freedom's cause;
When Liberty shall see her home
Low levelled with the turf,
And watch each son in turn become
A tyrant-driven serf;
When Freedom's sacred name's forgot
Within the hearts of men--
They'll crush us to the earth, but not--
By Heav'n!--but not till then!"

When it was finished, Mr. Gladstone applauded vigorously, as though
unconscious of the pointed way in which the verse had been sung at him,
or respectful perhaps of the sincerity of the singer; and Mr. Burnand,
who was present, and had been watching the scene with much amusement,
enquired, aside, "Who wrote that?" "I did." "When?" "Two days ago."
"Have you sent it anywhere?" "No." "Then let me have it." So with the
metre slightly changed it appeared in _Punch_ on May 23rd.

Some of the most delicate and humorous _vers de societe_ of the day have
come from Mr. Warham St. Leger, and some of the best have appeared since
the end of 1886 in the pages of _Punch_. "The Lay of the Lost Critic"
was the first of his contributions, and it was sent in, not by its
author, but by a friend who had read it. So well was it thought of that
Mr. St. Leger was invited at once to become a contributor, and
accordingly he sent in many poems during the four years that follow