Ichabod.

RITE it up with falt’ring fingers, Write it with a blush of shame, Since no ray of glory lingers ’Mid the temples of our fame. O’er a Christian Church blaspheming, Which has dragged the name of God Through the mire of party scheming, Write the legend “Ichabod.” Write it where our peers assemble, Dullards decked in solemn state, Though their sires made Europe tremble In the days when we were great. Peers to-day the land encumber, Lazy lords no spur can prod; O’er the House where now they slumber Write the legend “Ichabod.” Shrined in History’s grandest pages Are the deeds of those who bent Tyrant kings in kingly rages To the will of Parliament. Now but placemen, bores, and traitors Tread the halls that Hampden trod; O’er the House of idle praters Write the legend “Ichabod.” Once old England’s pride and glory Was that all her sons were free; Ah, to-day how changed the story! Where is now our liberty? Cranks and faddists forge our fetters, Every day we feel the rod, “Grandmamma” in sampler letters Works o’er England “Ichabod.”