WHEREFORE with barking mouths abuse
The hands that dole our " doctored " news ?
Is it not time there rose once more
That nobler sound—the lion's roar?
England, thou art a lion yet!
What meals are these before thee set ?
Stale morsels--no fit fare for thee--
And cooked besides! Oh, canst thou be
Content to famish--late and soon
Fed like an infant with a spoon?
Lion that ne'er didst loose in vain
The tempests of thy tangled mane,--
If thou would'st shake but one lone note
Of the ancient thunder from thy throat
On these who wrong thee, where were they ?
That blast would wither them away.