in
deathless verse. How well a dithyramb on the subject would go to a
certain popular tune! As thus:--

NO. VIII.--GET YOUR HARCOURT!

AIR--"_Get your Hair Cut_!"

'Twould serve them right if never I came
From my own fireside again!
The way the "Thunderer" cuts me up
Is vixenish--as vain.
I was born an Opportunist,
In a general sort of way,
But it's really very impertinent
For the _Times_ to grin and say:--

_Chorus._

"Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
Oh! whenever I'm on spout,
You can hear the Tories shout,
"Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!
To cheer you when your spirits are down!"

I started in the Buffo line.
When things seem getting slack,
I'm to the front, with lots of go.
My critics may cry "Quack!"
But quacking's not confined to _me_.
I do extremely well,
And the more "I give them physic," why
The more they squirm and yell--

_Chorus._

"Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
But they know my sparkling spout--
Will help to turn them out.
"Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
But I'll meet them when their sun goes down.

To play the great "HISTORICUS" part,
I years ago appeared.
The Thunderers stage then knew my art,
But now _that_ pitch is queered!
They swear that I apostatised
To follow W.G.,
And patter about "Parnellite juice,"
And holloa after me--

_Chorus._

"Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
But, with quip, and jibe, and flout,
I completely put them out.
"Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
But I beat them, and their sun goes down!

They try all sorts of "counters" to
My slogging strokes--in vain.
The "Thunderer" slates me every day,
But still I slog again.
Old W.G. in 'Ninety-Three
May form a Cabinet;
Then his first thought will be of Me,
And all will cry (you bet!)--

_Chorus._

"Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!
Whoever may stand out,
Malwood's Squire must join, no doubt.
Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
And _I'll_ mock them when their sun goes down!

* * * * *

TO THE GRAND OLD TORY.

(_BY THE WIFE OF A DISSENTING CUMBRIAN WORKMAN_.)

O WILLIAM, you have managed to offend.
The Workmen, and the Women, and the Welsh.
Beware, or you'll discover ere the end
That the _three_ W.'s the great _one_ can squelch!

* * *