* * * * *

MR. SMILLIE'S LITTLE ARMAGEDDON.

Shall she, the England unafraid,
That came by steady courage through
The toughest war was ever made
And wiped the earth with WILLIAM TWO
(Who, though it strikes us now as odd,
Was, in his way, a sort of little god)--

Shall she that stood serene and firm,
Sure of her will to stay and win,
Cry "Comrade!" on her knees and squirm
To lesser gods of cheaper tin,
Spreading herself, a _corpus vile_,
Under the prancing heels of Mr. SMILLIE?

Humour forbids! And even they
Who toil beneath the so-called sun,
Yet often in an eight-hours' day
Indulge a quiet sense of fun--
These too can see, however dim,
The joke of starving just for SMILLIE'S whim.

And here I note what looks to be
A rent in Labour's sacred fane;
The priestly oracles disagree,
And, when a house is split in twain,