Denherald

Ah! yes. He's at war as of yore, is our "Den,"
   Whom, we boasted, no guerdon, no bribe could suppress,
Ere yet, to our pleading unheeding, with pen
   Steeped in venom, he wrote for the juggernaut Press.
Will that first careless rapture come ever again,
Now that Mammon's athirst for the soul of our "Den"?

With purposeful clamouring, hammering din,
   Democracy's foes ev'ry breach have assailed,
Unlike Burns, our "Den" turns his back on his kin;
   Like Wordsworth, his former high purpose has failed.
When brains can be bartered for cheque-book and pen.
Ah!  Lost to renown is our over-worked "Den,"

Perhaps it's conviction, eviction, command,
   In the routine of duty embitters "Den's" voice.
Thus he loses sincerity, gaining asperity -
   What side would be champion if given his choice?
After all, there's gap in the ranks of true men
Till, contrite and chastened, returns our poor "Den."