LINES TO OUR NEW CENSOR

And wilt thou, Oscar, from us flee,

And must we, henceforth, wholly sever?

Shall thy laborious jeux-d'esprit

Sadden our lives no more for ever?

And all thy future wilt thou link

With that brave land to which thou goest?

Unhappy France! we used to think

She touched, at Sedan, fortune's lowest.

And you're made French as easily

As you might change the clothes you're wearing?

Fancy!— and‘ tis so hard to be

A man of sense and modest bearing.

May fortitude beneath this blow

Fail not the gallant Gallic nation!

By past experience, well we know

Her genius for recuperation.

And as for us — to our disgrace,

Your stricture's truth must be conceded:

Would any but a stupid race

Have made the fuss about you we did?