POETRY.

A PLEA FOR THE POLITICAL CELT.

["Were they going to trust those who understood the question of national defence, or a playful, pathetic, romantic, Celtic Chancellor of the Exchequer ? " —31r. WYNDHAM at Chester, December 28th, 1909.] WE live in a democratic age

When taste is spurned as a snare insidious ; For when antagonists engage It's folly to be fastidious, And praise to the face, I've always felt, Is unbecoming the candid Celt. Political war ie war to the knife Where kid-glove methods are sheer futility.

You can't dispense, in a fight for life, With personal scurrility.

And hitting above or below the belt All comes alike to the fervid Celt.

So, whenever I see a titled head, I hold it my solemn duty to whack it; rot, whether a Duke be living or dead, Helt bound to stand the racket. And no one a muddy missile can pelt With so deadly an aim as the nimble Celt.

Let other leaders endeavour to soothe The restless masses with sedative potions ; I never prophesy things that are smooth, I play on the raw emotions.

For the Muses at the beginning dealt The highest trump to the tuneful Celt.

Like the Cambrian bards, from whom I spring, I clothe my thoughts in a garb fantastic ; And I deal with solid fact as a thing That is altogether elastic.

Indeed there are tunes when a sprat or a smelt Looms large as a whale to the credulous Celt.

'Tis true that Perks in accents austere, Condemns the tone of my speeches as sinister; But Perks is now " next door to" a Peet, I'm only a little Minister.

And butter, you know, must sometimes melt In the red-hot mouth of the fiery Celt.

A " son of the Mountain," I live by abuse Of landlord, Randlord, and titled noodle. What matter if Anarchy be let loose If I glut the poor with boodle P For I never will rest till the rich have knelt At the feet of the communistic Celt.

Then every cottar shall own his car—

A noiseless new six-cylinder motor—.

And dine off pite and caviare Instead of the humble bloater.

And the Boers and the Britons all over the veld Shall speak the tongue of the conquering Celt.

The leek shall bloom on a thousand hills, And the sheep, the special glory of Gwalia, Shall utterly oust, in our butchers' bills, The frozen meat of Australia.

And the old and the young, and the stout and the svelte, Shall return to the muttons of the Celt.

0 endless blessings in that glad day Shall flow from my brand-new cornucopia, For the Butes and the brutes will have passed away In the Socialist Utopia.

And all the suffering Kinder der Welt

Shall bless the name of the tender Celt. C. L. G.