CONCERNING A MILLENNIUM

They tell me the Millennium’ s come

( And I should be extremely glad

Could I but feel assured, like some,

It had ):

They tell me of a bright To Be

When, freed from chains that tyrants forge

By the Right Honourable D.

Lloyd George,

We shall by penalties persuade

The idle unrepentant Great

To serve ( inadequately paid )

The State,—

All working for the general good,

While painful guillotines confront

The individual who could

And won’ t:

But horny-handed sons of toil,

Who now purvey our meats and drinks,

Our gardens devastate, and spoil

Our sinks,

Shall seldom condescend to take

That inconsiderable sum

For which they daily butch, and bake,

And plumb;

Such humble votaries of trade

No more shall follow arts like these;

Since most of them will then be made

M. P. s!

And can I then ( with some surprise

You ask ) possess my tranquil soul,

And view with calm indifferent eyes

The Poll,

While partisans, in raucous tones,

With doleful wail or joyful shout

Proclaim that Brown is in, or Jones

Is out?

I can: I do: the reason’ s plain:

That blissful day which prophets paint

Perhaps may come: perhaps again

It mayn’ t:

And ere these ages blest begin

( For Rome, I’ ve heard historians say,

Was only partly finished in

A day )

In men of sentiments sublime

’ Tis possible we yet may trace

The influence of mellowing Time

And PLACE:—

O who can tell? Ere Labour rouse

Its ever-multiplying hordes

To mend or end th’ obstructive House

Of Lords,

And bid aristocrats begone,

And their hereditary pelf

Bestow with generous hand upon

Itself —

Why, Mr. George,— his threats forgot

Which Earls and Viscounts cowering hear,—

Himself may be, as like as not,

A Peer!