Volume 25 — KING CHOLERA'S PROCESSION.
Reading edition
From Russian steppe, from Persian sand, From pine-fringed Norway fiord, From Elbe's and Eyder's peopled strand I've skimmed the sea—I've swept the land— Way for your lord!
Come deck my board—prepare my bed, And let the trump of doom Peal out a march, that as I tread Above the dying and the dead All may make room!
From far I snuff the odour sweet That I do love the best; And wheresoe'er I set my feet, Courtiers and liegemen flock to greet Their King confest.
Well have you done your loyal part, My subjects and my slaves— In town and country, port and mart, All's ready—after my own heart— All—to the graves!
What is my feast? These babes forpined;— Men ere their prime made old;— These sots, with strong drink bleared and blind— These herds of unsexed woman-kind Foul-mouthed and bold—
These bodies, stunted, shrivelled, seared With the malaria's breath; In fœtid dens and workshops reared; From reeking sewers, drains uncleared, Drinking in death.
What is my court? These cellars piled With filth of many a year— These rooms with rotting damps defiled— These alleys where the sun ne'er smiled, Darkling and drear!
These streets along the river's bank, Below the rise of tide; These hovels, set in stifling rank, Sapped by the earth-damps green and dank— These cess-pools wide.
These yards, whose heaps of dust and bone Breathe poison all around; These styes, whose swinish tenants grown Half human, with their masters own A common ground.
What are my perfumes? Stink and stench From slaughter-house and sewer; The oozing gas from opened trench, The effluvia of the pools that drench Court-yards impure.
What is my music? Hard-wrung groans From strong men stricken down: Women's and children's feebler moans, And the slow death-bell's muffled tones In every town.
Who are my lieges? Those that rule In Vestry and at Board; The Town-hall's glib and giddy fool, The mob's most abject slave and tool Though called its lord.
He who with prate of Vested Rights Old forms of wrong defends; Who for pound-foolishness still fights, Wisdom, save penny-wisdom, slights;— These are my friends.
The Industrious Cossacks.
We don't wonder that some of our Manchester friends should be content to see the Russian forces holding the Principalities. Those who object to the idleness of a military life must naturally admire an army of occupation.
MR. 'ARRY BELVILLE, ON THE CONTINENT GENERALLY.
'Arry Belville. "Yes! I like it extremely. I like the Lazy ally sort of feeling. I like sitting at the door of a Caffy to smoke my Cigar; and above all (onter noo) it's a great comfort to wear one's Beard without bein' larfed at!"