THE WAR CAULDRON.

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume XIII, Issue 108, 7 May 1878, Page 4

THE WAR CAULDRON.

. Double, double, toils and troubles ; Burns the fire, the cauldron bubbles ! And the hell-broth boiling over, "We its elements discover, Prom the bottom springs to light Brain of wily Muscovite, And his hand, its gauntlet hid In the skin of peaceful kid, And his tongue of treachery, Cancered witb a chronic lie, And a flint stone, shaped with arfc To tbe semblance of a beart, 3?_rst stock, these., for broth of war Cooked in kitchen of the Czar. . Double, double, toils and troubles ! Burns tbe fire, the cauldron bubbles Hissed from out that seething pot, Oomes a whisper, " Trust him net! Murd'rous is.the Islamite !" After pause, the same voice £" Lo Islamite ! the Christian foe, Plots thy death this very hour ; Strike for life, then ! crush the Giaour!" Double, double, toils and troubles ! Burn the fire, the cauldron bubbles ! Straightway from its lips of bale Bursts all sounds of mortal wail — Shriek of woman, infant's cry, Strong man's shout of agony, Welt'ring, then, upon a flood, Mixed of lurid flame and blood, Lo J tbe doomed, the dead, the dying ; lio ! the chaser and the flying ; -Lo ! the headsman's grisly knife ; Lo ! the shreds of comely life ; Awful eyes in dying stare ; Hands lopped off in act of prayer ; Limbless trunk, and trunkless head: Beauty's flower dishonoured — All adowu the ghastly spate, Whirled by murder, lust, and hate, Drunk with venom from tbe tongue That o'er the land Fear's poison flung, Lo ! the whisp rer's handiwork, "Wrought on Christian and on Turk ; So ! the ingredients sleeping got, By "Holy Russia" for the pot. • Prom its centre casting up Yankee cartridge, gun of Krupp; Dons of Russian bounce aud brag; . Half unfurled, the Prophet's flag ; • Bulls and bears of every nation, Goring, roaring, " Death ! Damnation!" Armies swarming 'cross the Pruth ; ' Not one little word ot truth, Then a lull, half hope, half fear, And. with eyeballs red and blear Oozes forth sleek Ignatieff, .( Whisp'ring, " "War to us is grief; -But from oath there's no recoiling : Czar has sworn — his blood is boiling— His great name is compromised ; Then our troops are mobilised ; "We've borne tbe last that honour may, In vain, my Lord. Oh, by the way, Perhaps, if set in different key, The beastly Turk might fail to see ' Tbe motif of that little song, Andtake and sing it ! Can't be wrong To hoodwink kite in such a cause: Well, sing'he must, or lose his claws ; Por, as I said, we're compromised, And, zounds! your lordship, mobilized.'' ,!■ . — Blackioood.