The Prosecution.

"He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll want to come back."

—Gilbert.

Recit. Lo, here, good friend, a heretic depraved,
Heart-hardened, graceless,—er, unshort, unsaved;
The job we have in hand is rather sordid—
We shall hereafter be rewarded.

We are here to see the frying
Of an outlaw, by whose lying
Many children of the faithful have been led away from grace.
Once a very common tater,
He developed strongly later
All the symptoms of rebellion and began to go the pace;
Our young hopefuls sat in wonder,
And 'mid unsound doctrine's thunder,
Like the murderer in Hamlet, poured he poison in their ear.
He's no reverence for the Bible,
In the Worker many a libel
Have we suffered from his pen (but not a word about the beer);
Did you ask him—like poor Peter—
Was he loyal, though discreeter,
Could he give more satisfaction that poor Pete gave the "Post"[unclear: ?]
With the hated Hun (and what's a

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Hun), with Hegel, Kant and Lotze,
He's communing while the nation's nearly giving up the ghost.
We have gathered from his speeches
Up at Alexandra Hall,
That the doctrine that he teaches
Means discomfort for us all;
So we've come along to burn him
(Dirty job it is, too, durn him!)
In the hope that we may turn him
To a reputable spook.

You will understand, dear Thomas,
When we shortly send you from us,
That we suffer just as you do, and we really wish you well;
We can't really help admiring
The great heights of your aspiring,
And we hope to see established a Progressive League in Hell:
In the commonwealth of Spookdom
Yon may earn a moral dukedom,
Lead the virtues forth like bloodhounds on the scent of every ill,
But 'neath a mediaeval
You'd provoke a great upheaval,
Break the peace that must be broken only at the Papal Will.
When the Scotchman, Hugh Mackenzie,
Writes the papers in line frenzy,
Upon freedom in religion or Utopian marriage ties,
Why, we love the "purple patches,"
And his parenthetic snatches,
For we know we're safe from danger while he's thinking in the skies.
But when dreams no longer please, you
Talk of blows where he aspires—
We lay hands upon and seize you,
Test your fervour with slow fires.
If you really want diversion,
Pray recant and try immersion
In St. Simon Sylites version of the Gospel for To-day.

You have erred, pugnacious Thomas,
And belied your early promise,
When you think the New Jerusalem's to be carved out with the sword;
Ah, this comes by prayer and fasting—
Beefy wins are never lasting—
And the forces of the spirie are the forces of the Lord.
When Sir Robert gets the dingbats,
And he roars out everything that's
Most improper in the Senate and you want to pitch him out,
Wind your legs about the table,
Hold your breath, and if you're able,
Whisper meekly o'er the table: Calm yourself, dear Brother Stout.
But, of course, it's too late talking—
In a short while you'll be stalking
Where the shades of errant heroes stump disconsolately around;
But among them hold your head up,
For you finished quite unfed-up
With the pranks they all got sick of ere they journeyed underground.

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You have had your little fling, Tom,
You have had your little say;
Now it's our turn, and we sing, Tom,
Every dog will have his day:
Men have hopes, but we have wrecked yours—
[unclear: Heresies and high] conjectures—
See, we burn you with your lectures,
And we fire up right away.