the last time. The plant closing, one of many we had endured

The ragged Zolaists have fled, screaming 'We are betrayed,'

But loyal Alan Breck is shent, stabbed through the Stuart plaid;

In sooth it is a grimly sight, so fast the heroes fall,

Three volumes fell could scarcely tell the fortunes of them all.

At length but two are left on ground, and David Grieve is one.

Ma foy, what deeds of derring-do that bookseller hath done!

The other, mark the giant frame, the great portentous fist!

'Tis Porthos! David Grieve may call on Kuenen an he list.