He might use the crisp words which, if lacking in length,
Make up for their shortness by meaning and strength.
But now we all fawn on the Celt and his kith,
While we smother our feelings to suit Mr. SMITH.

So, friends, we must choose a new Leader, and then,
With a Man at our head we shall quit us like men:
We shall always retort with a sting when we're stung,
With the bees in our bonnet, the D's on our tongue.
And the words that are honeyed shall fade like a myth,
When an ATKINSON stands in the shoes of a SMITH.

* * * * *

[Illustration: GENUS IRRITABILE.

_First Bard._ "SEEN MY SONNETS IN THE _PACIFIC WEEKLY_?"

_Second Bard._ "YES."

_First Bard._ "LIKE THEM?"

_Second Bard._ "WELL,--A--_CANDIDLY_--I--"

_First Bard._ "OH, IF IT COMES TO THAT, _CANDIDLY_ I ALWAYS HATED YOUR
BEASTLY BALLADES AND RONDELS AND ROT IN THE _ERECHTHEUM_--BUT I HAD
THE DECENCY NOT TO _TELL_ YOU SO!"]

* * * * *