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And the winner of the 'Guineas' and the Derby proudly

whinnies

Whene'er the Opposition has a fall.

I've a small estate at Hawarden, with a nice old-fashioned

garden,

I've a pair of carriage-horses and a cob;

And I con my classic folios far from Parliament's im

broglios,

Unembarrassed by the mandate of the mob.

and wide for its noble halls and beautiful gardens. . . . Lord Rosebery's is essentially a dairy farm. . . . The dairy is . . . provocative of admiration, with its Elizabethan architecture. . . . In the centre is a marble fountain. . . . . On the wooden shelves is a good deal of china, chiefly in Dresden and other fine ware. The orchard is under the jurisdiction of Mr. J. Smith, who has fifty gardeners and labourers under his direction.'--From The Prime Minister as Farmer,' Westminster Gazette, April 25, 1894.

DE CONTINENTIA

NON ebur neque aureum

Mea renidet in domo lacunar,

Non trabes Hymettiæ

Premunt columnas ultima recisas

Africa, neque Attali

Ignotus heres regiam occupavi,

Nec Laconicas mihi

Trahunt honestæ purpuras clientæ :

At fides et ingeni

Benigna vena est, pauperemque dives

Me petit; nihil supra

Deos lacesso nec potentem amicum

AD CRESUM CHICAGINENSEM

No staircase of marble, no ceiling

By Tadema painted, are mine;

My spoons are unworthy of stealing,
No epicure envies my wine.

No millionaire ever bequeathed me

The tithe of his riches untold,

Nor has any Tracy enwreathed me,

Like Dizzy, with laurels of gold

No, mine is an intellect spacious,

A record unsullied by blame,

And even Carnegie is gracious

Enough my acquaintance to claim

F

Largiora flagito

Satis beatus unicis Sabinis.

Truditur dies die,

Novæque pergunt interire lunæ.

Tu secanda marmora

Locas sub ipsum funus et sepulcri

Immemor struis domos

Marisque Baiis obstrepentis urges

Summovere litora,

Parum locuples continente ripa.

Quid, quod usque proximos

Revellis agri terminos et ultra

Limites clientium

Salis avarus? Pellitur paternos

In sinu ferens deos

Et uxor et vir sordidosque natos.

Heav'n's bounty for naught I importune,
I cringe not to rich or to great,

Supremely content with my fortune,
My snug little Flintshire estate.

Though time, like Niagara speeding,
Brings doom to the plutocrat peer,
Of death and its duties unheeding

New palaces hastes he to rear.

Or, craving a keener emotion

Than life on the mainland supplies,

He scours o'er the surface of ocean

In yachts of extravagant size.

Nay more if he thinks that his shooting The huts of the husbandmen spoil,

He never refrains from uprooting

Poor tenants by scores from the soil :

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