["On which horn of the dilemma will the Gladstonians elect to stand?”—­Mr. Chamberlain, in his controversy with Sir W. Harcourt on the place of Home Rule in the Gladstonian programme.]

Faithful Unionist Sentry, loquitur:—­

  Faith! yes, a dilemma, no doubt, is the thing
    To stagger Big Bounce, in a fashion Socratic. 
  I fancy I know now to plant a sharp sting,
    The success of my bayonet-play is emphatic. 
  Remember a picture I once chanced to see,
    A Pompeian sentinel posed at a portal,
  And “faithful to death” though fire threatened.  That’s Me! 
    As my country’s defender, my fame is immortal.

  Yes, the Sentinel’s role suits my style passing well;
    The enemy won’t find me napping or nodding. 
  But what I most like as I do sentry spell,
    Is the fine opportunity offered for—­prodding! 
  I watch like a lynx, as a sentry should do,
    With an eye like a hawk, and a smile sweet as syrup;
  But when there’s a chance for ’a thrust—­whirraroo! 
    My bayonet-point is agog for a stir up! 
  JOE, the Sentry, you know, like Joe Bagstock, is sly,
    Ay, “devilish sly,”—­if I may speak profanely. 
  That swashbuckler H-RC-RT now, swaggering there—­why,
    The big burly Bobadil’s acting insanely. 
  I do like to draw him.  These ramparts are mine,
    But because we’re old comrades he cheeks me.  “Woa, EMMA!”
  As cads used to shout.  I extremely incline
    To tickle him up with—­a two-horned Dilemma!

  “Well, WILLIAM, what cheer?” He is struggling out there
    With a—­Snark; ’tis a Boojum which shortly may vanish. 
  Like Frankenstein’s, his is a Monster, I fear,
    He would—­did he dare—­be delighted to banish. 
  That big “Home-Rule” Bogey, my Bobadil, seems
    A “handful” with which you are destined to struggle,
  Which darkens your days as it haunts all your dreams;
    Which you cannot get rid of by force or by juggle.

  You’ve got him, you say? Well, then, bring him along! 
    Ha! ha!  Says "he can’t!" That’s exceedingly funny! 
  It is very hard when your “captive"’s so strong,
    He won’t do your bidding for love or for money. 
  Like SAMSON he leads his DELILAH a dance. 
    Like PAT’S prisoner—­all know the old Irish story—­
  He won’t give his captor a ghost of a chance. 
    Such “prisoners” do mar their conqueror’s glory.

  "Well, leave him behind, then, and come on alone!"—­
    Eh!  “Captive won’t let you?” That’s just what I told you! 
  Your trophy, “Home Rule,” has an incubus grown;
    He’s got you, my friend, and, my faith, he will hold you. 
  ’Tis PADDY’S Dilemma all over again,
    Only you’re the true PAT.  You can’t take it or leave it. 
  Your triumph was futile, your struggles are vain;
    Mine’s the Sentinel’s eye, and you cannot deceive it.