What profits me tho’ I sud be

         The lord o’ yonder castle gay;

      Hev rooms in state to imitate

         The princely splendour of the day

      For what are all my carvéd doors,

      My chandeliers or carpet floors,

         No art could save me from the grave.

      What profits me tho’ I sud be

         Decked i’ costly costumes grand,

      Like the Persian king o’ kings,

         Wi’ diamond rings to deck my hand:

      For what wor all my grand attire,

      That fooils both envy and admire,

         No gems could save me from the grave.

      What profits me tho’ I sud be

         Thy worthy host, O millionaire,

      Hev cent. for cent. for money lent;

         My wealth increasing ivvery year.

      For what wor all my wealth to me,

      Compared to immortality,

         Wealth could not save me from the grave.

      What profits me tho’ I sud be

         Even the gert Persian Shah,

      My subjects stand at my command,

         Wi’ fearful aspect and wi’ awe;

      For what wor a despotic rule,

      Wi’ all the world at my control,

         All could not save me from the grave.

      From the red fields of gore, ’midst war’s dreadful clang,

         I hear a sad strain o’er oceans afar:

      Oh, shame, shame upon you, ye proud men of England,

         Whose highest ambition is rapine and war!

               Through your vain wickedness

               Thousands are fatherless,

      False your pretensions old Egypt to save;

               Arabs with spear in hand

               Far in a distant land

      Made our brave Gordon a sad and red grave.

      On Nile’s sunny banks, with the Arab’s great nation,

         Brave Gordon was honoured and worshipped by all,

      The acknowledged master of the great situation,

         Until England’s bondholders caused Egypt to fall.

               Another great blunder,

               Makes the world wonder,

      Where is Britannia’s sword, sceptre and shield?

               War and disaster

               Come thicker and faster,

      Oh, for the days of the Great Beaconsfield!

      Oh, Great Beaconsfield! the wise and the clever,

         When will thy place in our nation be filled?

      Britannia’s shrill answer is never, oh never,

         My Beaconsfield’s dead, and my Gordon is killed!

               Oh, blame not my foemen

               Or a Brutus-like Roman,

      Or Soudanese Arabs for Gordon’s sad doom;

               But blame that vain Briton

               Whose name is true written,

      The slayer of Gordon, who fell at Khartoum.

      I sing no song of superstition,

         No dark deeds of an Inquisition,

      No mad-brain’d theme of wild ambition,

         For lo, their doom is sealed!

      But I will use my best endeavour,

         To praise the good, the wise, the clever,

      Who will remember’d be for ever,

         The Earl of Beaconsfield.

      When England was without alliance,

         He bid the Russians bold defiance,

      On Austria had no reliance

         In either flood or field;

      He proudly sent to Hornby message,

         The Dardanelles! go force the passage

      In spite of Turkey, Bear, or Sausage,

         The dauntless Beaconsfield!

      At Berlin, he with admiration

         Was gazed upon by every nation,

      And, master of the situation,

         Vow’d Britons ne’er would yield.

      For I am here, you may depend on’t,

         This Eastern brawl to make an end on’t,

      To show both plaintiff and defendant

         I’m Earl of Beaconsfield!

      Britannia now doth weep and ponder,

         Bereaved of him, her child of wonder,

      No earthly power could break asunder

         His love for England’s weal.

      And now those locks once dark as raven

         (For laurel leaves ne’er deck’d a craven)

      Wear a laurel crown in Heaven,

         Glorious Beaconsfield!

      “Come, nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,”

         Are words but rudely said;

      Though they may cheer some stricken heart,

         Or raise some wretched head;

      For they are words I love mysel,

         They’re music to my ear;

      They muster up fresh energy

         An’ chase each doubt an’ fear.

      Nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,

         Though tha be poor indeed;

      Ner lippen ta long i’ th’ turnin’ up

         Sa mich ov a friend in need;

      Fur few ther are, an’ far between,

         That help a poor man thru;

      An’ God helps them at help therseln,

         An’ they hev friends enew.

      Nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,

         Whativver thi creditors say;

      Tell um at least tha’rt foarst ta owe,

         If tha artant able ta pay;

      An’ if they nail thi bits o’ traps,

         An’ sell tha dish an’ spooin;

      Remember