Volume 150 — THE ENEMY WITHIN OUR GATES.

We know him under many a name (His odour's always much the same)— The type that gives the warm and woolly mitten To every cause in which a free Briton may prove his right to be Pro-anything-on-earth-excepting-Britain. When from the trenches came the call, "Make good the gaps in England's wall!" He loathed to take our shirkers and enlist 'em; Content to pay the deadliest price Sooner than have to sacrifice His passion for a voluntary system. Not on our soldiers facing death Under the poison's fœtid breath His dear solicitude expends its labours; He saves his sympathy for those Whose conscience, bleating through their nose, Elects to leave the fighting to their neighbours. And witness Ireland, where our best, Eager to serve a higher quest And in the Great Cause know the joy of battle, Gallant and young, by traitor hands Leagued with a foe from alien lands, Struck down in cold blood fell like butchered cattle;— Not for their fate his bosom bleeds, But theirs who wrought the rebel deeds, For them his soul reserves its chief obsession; The murdered he can soon forget, But, if the murderers pay their debt, He fears it might create a bad impression! And in that hell of hidden fire, Whose brave conductors so inspire With native pride the maw of Mr. Dillon, A bloody tragedy he finds Of which, to all instructed minds, England (as usual) is the leading villain. O. S.