AN ENGLISHMAN'S LAMENT FOR LORD CLYDE. [ON SEEING HIS STATUE,
IN WATERLOO PLACE, BY BARON MAnocnerri.] WANDERING o'er our dreary pavements, lounging down our dingy streets,
What black images of heroes every now and then one meets ; Grim the Duke upon his archway, grim Pitt's nose looks out in pride ; But the grimmest of the grim looks our latest-come, Lord Clyde.
As we step up by the column, we can wonder at him there, Standing dandified and natty, with a full-parading air ; Boots and belt, and sword and helmet, like a saucepan at his side ; Frowning like an angry monkey : can this be our brave Lord Clyde?
He who dasled up at the Alma, who at Balaklava led, Cool and firm at Lucknow moving o'er the heaps of rebel dead ; From his eye keen flashes glancing, bold and frank, the soldier's pride :— Can this mass of millinery be the gallant good Lord Clyde?
Hero deeds and hero features, are ye sunk so low as this ? This the honour that a nation pays to service such as his? Were no better hands in England to do justice to our pride ? Take this foreign monkey down, and give us back our own Lord Clyde !
What Italian glories were in art we know and we revere ; All the more we scorn the clumsy counterfeit that meets us here ; The brazen impudence that thus has dared a hero to deride ; Take this foreign monkey down, and give us back our own Lord Clyde !
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