of starts,”
  The ribald Cockney cries; to see at length,
  “The Tory seeking to recruit his strength
  Prom those he dubbed, in earlier, scornfuller mood
  The crowing hens, the shrieking sisterhood!”
  Shade of sardonic SMOLLETT, haunt no more
  St. Stephen’s precincts; list not to the roar
  Of the mad Midland cheers, when FEILDING’s plan
  Of levelling (moneyed) Woman up to Man
  Wins “Constitutional” support and votes
  From a “majority” of Tory throats! 
  Mrs. LYNN LINTON, how this vote must vex,
  That caustic censor of her own sweet sex! 
  Wild Women—­with the Suffrage!  Fancy that,
  O fluent Lady, at tart nick-names pat! 
  Girls of the Period?  They were bad enough,
  But what a deal of skimble-skamble stuff
  Will Mrs. FAWCETT’s Middle-aged Ones talk
  When these eight hundred thousand hens o’ the walk
  Cackle for Order, Purity, and Peace!!!

  Partlets may save our Capitol, as geese
  Once did the Roman; nigh a million—­JUNOS,
  Roll back the tide of Revolution.  Who knows? 
  Not PRIAM-SALISBURY.  Does he look askance
  At the new Amazonian Queen’s advance? 
  Does he hide apprehension with a smile? 
  The Amazons are used to Grecian guile;
  ACHILLES-GLADSTONE sorely they mistrust. 
  Which side will give them more than fain it must? 
  To-day the Trojans show the friendlier front
  PENTHESILEA, whom the Greeks would shunt,
  Proffers her aid to Tory Troy, to keep
  High Ilium against the foes who creep
  Nearer and nearer to its sacred walls. 
  ACHILLES o’er the trenches loudly calls,
  In menace fierce, thrasonic in his boast,
  His Myrmidons, a mad and motley host,
  Mean boundless mischief, the Palladium’s gone
  If they are not repulsed.  It must be done,
  Come what, come will.  PRIAM has trimmed his sails
  To popular winds until the pilot fails
  To know the old and carefully charted course. 
  His wisdom, and brave ARTHUR-HECTOR’s force,
  May yet prove vain if no auxiliar hand
  Help yon Anarchic legions to withstand. 
  The Amazonian host?  Aha!  Well hit! 
  Scruple to take she-helping?  Not a bit
  Too late for proud punctilio.  No, this Queen
  Is not so lovely, of such royal mien,
  As hers who witched ACHILLES e’en in death. 
  An elderly Amazon of shortish breath,
  With gingham huge and gig-lamps, though she hold
  That “Property” buckler broad and bossed with gold
  Is scarce a Siren—­of the ancient style;
  More of Minerva’s frown than Venus’ smile! 
  But then, eight hundred thousand!!!  There’s the rub. 
  Recruited from the Platform and the Tub,
  With Middle-aged and Propertied Amazons,
  Ilium may master e’en the Myrmidons. 
  Come, anti-revolutionaries, come! 
  Strike Anarchy dead, and Socialism dumb! 
  Accept new arms, ye maiden cohorts!  Take
  The weapon that shall make ACHILLES shake,
  And reinforce, against the wiles of Greece,
  The powers of Property, Privilege, and Peace!