-
He shuns the fogs of winter in a far-off sunny land,
Nursing his force for the great fray that may right soon come on,--
This is not he of Hawarden, but the old hero's son:
There's OTTO, of the brindled beard, RUSSELLIUS swift of tongue,
RIPONIUS and LEFEVRIUS into the fray have flung.
Sleek-haired STANSFELDUS also, MUNDELLA of the Beak.
That CORVUS of the legion, good both to fight and speak,
LEO PLAYFAIRIUS follows, and brave BANNERMANUS bears
The flag he's fond of flaunting, there gallant AUCEPS dares
All that becomes a hero, whilst last, but oh, not least!
KIMBERLEYUS fares forth to the fight as others to a feast.
"Now, up!" cried stout HARCURTIUS, "Up! and we yet shall trap 'em!
Kennington calls, and Hackney, with Fulham, too, and Clapham.
I hear the cry of Chelsea, Islington North and West
Raise wails that find an echo in this mail-covered breast.
Bermondsey and Whitechapel upraise a piteous plaint:
('Wy don't our 'eroes wisit _hus_? We looks and there they ain't!')
North Lambeth long neglected, and Wandsworth far South-West,
(If I know where these places be I wish I may be blest!)
Appeal to us for succour: then Peckham, gallant Peckham,
Makes a far cry from her famed Rye. O brethren, shall we check 'em,
These brave suburban stalwarts whose home is in the waste
Afar from Pall Mall portals, swell Clubs, and homes of taste,
But who have Votes, my brethren? Nay, shout ye men of pith,
And strike for pining Poplar and hapless Hammersmith!"
"Quite so!" cries 'cute MUNDELLA, the corvine chief and conky,
"But he who maketh too much noise may show himself a donkey.
The Capital seems quiet, Sir, the garrison is still,
Suppose we try that old Gaul game!" HARCURTIUS cries, "I will!"
Then silently and slowly, and all in single file,
They climb towards the Citadel. HARCURTIUS, with a smile,
Hath his head o'er the ramparts, when--Great CAESAR, what is this?
They're greeted with one loud, prolonged, and universal _hiss_!
The sudden sibilation out of silence startles all,
HARCURTIUS clangs his buckler, OTTO nearly hath a fall,
"Great gods, the Geese are on us, those confounded Sacred Geese,
See their long necks, twig their broad beaks! Cease, senile
cacklers, cease!"

So gaspeth great HARCURTIUS, but gaspeth all in vain.
The gaff is blown, the anserine guard gives tongue with might and main.
A stir, a tramp of mailed feet, a torch-flar