What profits me tho’ I sud be The lord o’ yonder castle gay; Hev rooms in state to imitate The princely splendour of the day For what are all my carvéd doors, My chandeliers or carpet floors, No art could save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be Decked i’ costly costumes grand, Like the Persian king o’ kings, Wi’ diamond rings to deck my hand: For what wor all my grand attire, That fooils both envy and admire, No gems could save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be Thy worthy host, O millionaire, Hev cent. for cent. for money lent; My wealth increasing ivvery year. For what wor all my wealth to me, Compared to immortality, Wealth could not save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be Even the gert Persian Shah, My subjects stand at my command, Wi’ fearful aspect and wi’ awe; For what wor a despotic rule, Wi’ all the world at my control, All could not save me from the grave.

p. 14The Death of Gordon.

p. 14

From the red fields of gore, ’midst war’s dreadful clang, I hear a sad strain o’er oceans afar: Oh, shame, shame upon you, ye proud men of England,  Whose highest ambition is rapine and war! Through your vain wickedness Thousands are fatherless, False your pretensions old Egypt to save; Arabs with spear in hand Far in a distant land Made our brave Gordon a sad and red grave.

On Nile’s sunny banks, with the Arab’s great nation, Brave Gordon was honoured and worshipped by all, The acknowledged master of the great situation, Until England’s bondholders caused Egypt to fall. Another great blunder, Makes the world wonder, Where is Britannia’s sword, sceptre and shield? War and disaster Come thicker and faster, Oh, for the days of the Great Beaconsfield!

Oh, Great Beaconsfield! the wise and the clever, When will thy place in our nation be filled? Britannia’s shrill answer is never, oh never, My Beaconsfield’s dead, and my Gordon is killed! p. 15Oh, blame not my foemen Or a Brutus-like Roman, Or Soudanese Arabs for Gordon’s sad doom; But blame that vain Briton Whose name is true written, The slayer of Gordon, who fell at Khartoum.

p. 15

 

The Earl of Beaconsfield.

I sing no song of superstition, No dark deeds of an Inquisition, No mad-brain’d 

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