SONG OF THE SESSION.

THERE'S nought but talk on every han';
On every night that passes, oh!
'Tis wonderful how Members can
Behave so much like Asses, oh!
Loud bray the Asses, oh!
Loud bray the Asses, oh!

While business waits amid debates;
And so the Session passes, oh!

All this delay, from day to day

Arrears of work amasses, oh !
By sum on sum, till August's come,
When Statesmen look like Asses, oh
Loud, &c.

The Income Tax upon our backs,
With leaden weight is pressing, oh!
And Ireland's grief demands relief,
The Debtor's wrongs redressing, oh!
Loud, &c.

The Poor-Law Bill is standing still,
While Gentlemen are jawing, oh!
At fists and foils, in private broils,
Each other clapper-clawing, oh!
Loud, &c.

Give them their hour to spend at night,

In altercation dreary, oh!

And England's good, and England's right, May gang all tapsalteerie, oh!

Loud, &c.

Although the above lines appeared in Punch more than forty years ago, they apply almost equally well to the present Parliament.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE LAST DUKE.

(After The Last Man.)

ALL selfishness must meet its doom;
Humbug itself must die,

Before the Dukes give us their room
'Stead of their company.

I saw a vision in my sleep,

Of Tainboffcoon, a fearful heap,
And Belgian cattle prime :-
I saw the last of Ducal race,

Who in the steamer took his place,
To seek a foreign clime.

His Grace had quite a bilious air;
His cheek with woe was wan;
The Ducal glories center'd were,
All in that lonely man!

Some had gone to Boulogne-the hands
Of mortgagees were on their lands-
To Rome and Baden some;

The House of Peers was drear and dead,
And Punch himself as dull as lead,
Now that the Dukes were dumb.

Yet, donkey-like that lone one stood,
In seediness still high,

And, turning on the pier of wood

To England gave good bye:

Saying, "Thou hast set, my country's sun!
Thou may'st shut up-the thing is done;
The Dukes are forc'd to go;

The Corn Laws, that for eighteen years
Have kept up rents and paid the Peers,
Have fallen at a blow!

"What though beneath them we had dearth, And no reward for skill?

What though the tillers of the earth
Their bellies ne'er could fill?
Henceforth to men in toil grown grey,

The new coat with its buttons gay,

No Ducal hand imparts

Henceforth no Duke shall teach the throng,
With curry-powder warm and strong,
To cheer the labourers' hearts.
"But I, for one, won't vote supplies
To men who thus conspire

To lower the Duke in vulgar eyes,

And poke fun at the Squire.

I quit my country, doomed to death;
Hard soil, where first I drew my breath,
Where long I ruled the roast;
I'll take the Corn-Laws for a pall,
And, wrapping them around me, fall-
Wept by the Morning Post!

"Go, JOHN-the steam will soon be up,
A sandwich I would taste;

I shall be too sea-sick to sup

Unto SIR ROBERT haste;
Tell that man to his brazen face,
Thou saw'st the last of Ducal race
Quitting this classic spot,

PEEL and Potato-blight defy

To make him hold his tongue, or try

To talk aught else but 'rot'!"

Punch, 1846.

(The Duke of Richmond opposed the repeal of the Corn Laws, and declared that if they were repealed, landed proprietors would be driven out of the country.)

THE LAST MAN.

(A Study after Campbell.)

The Park has quite a sickly glare,
The trees are brown as tan,

The spectres of the season are
Around that lonely man.

His world has vanished-ah, 'tis hard,
He cannot find a single card

For party on the lawn,

For picnic, flower show, or dance;

To Greece, Spain, Italy, and France Or Cyprus they have gone.

Sad and perplexed the lone one stood,
And muttered with a sigh,

"I have no friends by field or flood,
By moor or mountain high.
The opera's over, Goodwood done,
And sport with fishing-rod or gun
Alone is very slow.

Until the Upper Ten' appear,
About the closing of the year,

I know not where to go.

"And wearily each moment flies,

For stale amusements tire;
An idle man's in agonies

When seasons thus expire.
Belgravia is as still as death,

And in Mayfair I hold my breath;
Or on some absent host

Make quite unnecessary calls;
Or haply in familiar halls

I linger like a ghost.'

He sought the club-" Bring claret cup
Oh, waiter, and with haste;
Something to keep my spirits up

In mercy let me taste.

And if a pilgrim seeks the place

Tell him the last swell of his race

This afternoon hath trod,

The squares, the drives, and Rotten Row,

And met no single belle or beau

To greet his listless nod."

Funny Folks, August 24, 1878.

-:0:

THE SONG OF THE FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY,

(The Earl of Ellenborough.)

YE mariners of England,

I'll thank you if you please,

To come and tell me something of

The service of the seas:

I've something heard of horse marines

But nothing do I know;

Though a trip in a ship

I to India once did go.

If enemies oppose me,
And say I'm very far

From being what I ought to be,
I'll say that others are.

So come, brave tars, and teach me

A vessel for to know:

If the heel is the keel

Or abaft means down below.

Then courage, all you admirals,
And never be dismay'd,
For I'm a bold adventurer,
That never learnt my trade.

Our ministers employ me

To vote for them, you know; Then be bold, when you're told

That by interest things go.

Then here's a health to Wellington,
Who made of me the choice;
And to his worthy colleagues bold,
Who scorn the public voice.
Tell France and tell America
They may begin to crow ;-
While I reign o'er the main

Is the time to strike a blow.

Punch, January, 1846.

(The Earl of Ellenborough was sent to India, as GovernorGeneral, in 1842, and remained there till 1844. On his return there was some difficulty to find a place in the Government for him. By Sir Robert Peel he was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty, a post which he probably owed to the friendship and interest of the Duke of Wellington.)

THE RAILWAYS GROSS MISMANAGEMENT; Or, The Complaint of the "Engine-driver" versified. (Written in 1847, when Railways were in their infancy.)

Punch, 1847.

You Managers of Railways,

Who meet to talk and dine,
Ah! little do you think upon
The dangers of the line;
Give ear unto your engineers,
And they will plainly show
All the wrack, which, alack!
From mismanagement doth flow.
All who are engine-drivers

Must have tremendous pluck,
For when you get upon your seat
You trust your life to luck;
You must not be faint-hearted
For crash or overthrow,
And the spills from the ills

Of mismanagement that flow.
Sometimes our trains are mixed up,
Of common sense in spite,
With several heavy carriages,
And others that are light;

Out rolls the train, and no man What next may come can know ; And whate'er happens here

From mismanagement doth flow.
But our worst source of peril
By far, is when we find

An engine put before the train,
And one to push behind;
Then jamm'd and crush'd together
Of carriages the row

Oft will be-which, you see,

From mismanagement doth flow. Unto our trains of breaksmen There is a shameful lack;

And hence it is our lives and limbs
So often go to wrack,

For want of due assistance
Our peril when we know:
This defect from neglect

And mismanagement doth flow.

Ye legislative sages!

On you it is we call !
For as for our proprietors,
Gain is their all in all,

Which, for the public safety,
They somewhat must forego,
Or your bills stop those ills

From mismanagement that flow.

"A great deal more attention will have to be given than heretofore by the agriculturists of England, and perhaps even Scotland, to the production of fruits, vegetables and flowers. You know that in Scotland a great example of this kind has been set in the cultivation of strawberries."-Mr. Gladstone at West Calder, Nov. 27, 1879.

YE husbandmen of Scotland,

Who till our native soil,

How vain your high-class farming! How profitless your toil!

YE Liberals of England

Who vote by land and seas,

Who stamped your names in other years,
On Parliament's decrees-

Your glorious party launch again

To meet its ancient foe,

And sweep, swift and deep,

And no hesitation know,

Till a Liberal army, brave and strong,
Shall Tories overthrow.

The great deeds of your fathers

Still speak from many a grave;

For the Commons was their field of fame,
Their native land to save.

Again let noble Gladstone tell,
While every heart doth glow,
How to leap o'er the deep
Machinations of the foe,

Till England echoes with the song
Of the Tory overthrow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks
On every savage steep;

At keeping rebel hordes in awe
Small glory will she reap.

She smiles at " Foreign Policy,"

While "Peace and Honour" grow,
And Jingoes roar abroad no more
About a savage foe.

But John Bull sees 'twixt right and wrong,
Through the Tory overthrow.

The Liberal strength of England

Shall fill the voting urns,

Till Tory fictions fade away,

And common sense returns.

Then, then, ye Liberal warriors,

The song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

And the glory of the blow

That struck a Sham with the force of Truth,
And laid the Tories low.

Funny Folks, April 17, 1880.

:0:

THE LANDLORD'S FAREWELL.

A respectful Perversion of The Exile of Erin.

THERE came to the beach a poor landlord of Erin,
The due on his rent-roll was heavy and chill,
For his garments he sighed, for they needed repairin',
While the boots on his feet were just "tenants-at-will;"
But a steamer attracted his eye's sad devotion,
And he thought as he watched it glide over the ocean,
"There's one thing that keeps my poor grinders in motion,
And that's emigration from "Erin-go-Bragh.'
"Sad is my fate!" groaned the purple-nosed stranger,
To beg I'm ashamed, and to dig - don't agree ;

I have no refuge from famine and danger
But to set up a pub in the Land of the Free.
Never again, at the midnight's small hours,

Shall I swig the old port in those well-furnished bowers,
Which my grandfather got from the governing powers,
When penal laws flourished in Erin-go-bragh.

Erin, my country! you'll soon be forsaken
By all the respectable landlords of yore;

Then will those rascally tenants awaken,

With their nose to some grindstone they knew not before.

Oh, cruel fate, could you ever replace me

In my seat in the House, where no bagman could chase

me;

I'd vote for Coercion-though Healy should face me—
And prove my relations were hanged by the score !

Where is my hunting lodge, deep in the wild wood
(Hounds that are poisoned can't answer the call),
Where are the tenants I bullied since childhood?
And where are my rack-rents? They're gone to the wall.
Ah, my sad pocket 'tis easy to measure,
Land Leagues and lawsuits exhausted your treasure,
Fifty per cent. I'd abate now with pleasure
But the devil a ha'penny they'll give me at all!

New Year is here now, and creditors pressing,
One dying wish! ere I'm forced to withdraw
Davitt a landlord bequeaths thee his blessing,
('Tis all that you've left him in Erin-go-Bragh).
And (in my shirt-sleeves across the broad ocean)
I'll pray for Parnell who put voters in motion,
And filled their thick heads with this new-fangled notion
That leaves them the masters of Erin-go-Bragh.
M. O'BRIEN.

From The Irish Fireside, February 6, 1886.

THE ESCAPE OF THE ALDERMEN.
(After The Battle of the Baltic.)

SING the adventure rare

Of those worthies of renown,

The Right Honourable LORD MAYOR
Of great London's famous town,

And the Sheriffs, and the Aldermen, at large
On diversion they were bent,

And on junketting intent;

So they up the river went

In their barge.

Like porpoises afloat

Roll'd their Worships in their craft, In that truly jolly boat

It was merry fore and aft:

The thirtieth of September was the day,
They were sitting at dessert,
With their waistcoats all ungirt,
So extremely full of turt-
-le were they.

MICHAEL GIBBS was in his chair,
In his chair of civic state;
And the Sheriffs near him were,-
The elect as well as late;

And the Aldermen the board were sitting round,

As they drifted up the tide,
In their cabin big and wide,
Each took care of his inside,
I'll be bound.

To London ere the sun is low,
The unemployed in thousands go,
Where the Trafalgar fountains flow,

Like Hyndman speaking rapidly.
But London saw another sight,
When Hyndman bade his friends unite
To make o'erladen shops more light
Of their superfluous jewelry.
By word and gesture fast arrayed,
Whitechapel thieves of ev'ry grade-
Who rushed upon their westward raid
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the streets to riot given,
Then rushed King Mob to havoc driven,
And louder than the bolts of Heaven

They roared in all their devilry. But more defiant yet they grow, As down South Audley Street they go, Bottles and legs of mutton throw In Socialistic bravery. The havoc deepens! On, ye brave, To win no glory-risk no grave— Wave, Riot, thy red banner wave,

And charge with East-end chivalry. 'Tis eve, and all the damage done, Police stroll up to see the fun, And from each thousand capture one

Who joined not in the knavery. Few, few shall smart, tho' many meet, And carpenters and glaziers greet A day dear to South Audley Street, The famous eighth of February.

HYDE PARKER.

CORONATION LAYS.

(Picked up in the Crowd,)

An article, having the above title, appeared in the New Monthly Magazine, July, 1831. It referred to the forthcoming coronation of King William IV. and Queen Adelaide, which took place on September 8, 1831. The scraps of poetry were supposed to proceed from the pens of Sir Walter Scott, Thomas Campbell, S. T. Coleridge, W. Wordsworth, L.E.L. (Miss Landon), the Rev. G. Crabbe, Thomas Moore, Thomas Hood, and Robert Southey, then Poet Laureate. As the imitations of Scott and Campbell lead the way, the article may as well be inserted here. The little introductory notices alluding to Moore's well-known love of a Lord, Southey's objection to write the official odes hitherto expected from the Poet Laureate, &c., sufficiently indicate the authors referred to. Some of the imitations are not very striking, and those on Crabbe and L.E. L. might perhaps have been omitted as possessing little to interest the modern reader. However, the whole of the poetry is given, the comments only having been slightly shortened.

THE LAY OF THE LOST MINSTREL.
(Sir Walter Scott.)

[A tall" stalwart figure," with a good-humoured Scotch face, a sturdy-looking stick, and a style of dress indicative of something between the farmer and the philosopher, should be represented seated upon a pile of novels, marked "fiftieth edition," writing, with a pen in each hand two volumes at once of a new work-at the same time dictating a third to an amanuensis at his elbow.] LONG years have pass'd, since lyre of mine Awoke the short and easy line

That now unbidden flows;

Tell, Constable, tell thou, how long

My steps have shunned the halls of Song,
And sent, for sundry reasons strong,

My pages, an uncounted throng,
To bear the train of Prose !

But now my harp anew is strung;
And eager grows my tuneful tongue,
Like panting steed that paws the earth,
To burst and tell its tale of mirth.
And visions float, like those that danced

Before my eyes, when George the Fourth,
Be-tartaned o'er, erewhile advanced
With knightly train, and quite entranced
The fondly-frantic North.
Again I see such glittering show,
Again such pageants gleam and go,
As well might form the golden theme
Of minstrel-song or morning-dream.
The last excursion formed, I ween,
To charm our gentle King and Queen,
Was on the tide of Thames ;
A sight that few may e'er forget,
That bards, enrapt, are singing yet:
Then all the court, defying wet,
Embarked at House of Somerset ;
But now the Royal party met
At Palace of St. James !
Sunny was that September morn ;
And groups grotesque were there;
The beef-eaters-and those who scorn
To taste such vulgar fare-
And those again who daily mourn,
Condemned to dine on air.
Highest and lowest of the land

Were met, and saw no vacant stand;
Ladies with white and waving hand,
And troops, a fine mustachio'd band,

With brandished weapons bare.
And coachmen, comely, sleek, and big,
Beneath a curly world of wig;
And pages slim, a countless race,
So dazzlingly disguised in lace,

So like a line of dukes they stood,
That had their thousand mothers old
Beheld them in those suits of gold,

They had not known their blood.
Now, now the standard fondlier floats,
The cannons speak with hoarser throats,
And cheek of trumpeter denotes

The coming of the king!
Each lady now her kerchief throws,
Each exquisite with ardour glows,
Each treads upon his fellow's toes,
And deems he sees the monarch's nose, -
Ah! no, 'tis no such thing.

Yet hark! now, now in truth he comes,
He comes as sure as drums are drums;
The drums, the guns, the shouts, the cheers,
You hear or you have lost your ears.
Let all look now, or look no more;
What stands at yonder palace-door?
Gaze, wonderers, gaze; a coach-and-eight
Is passing through that palace-gate-
A coach of gold, with steeds of cream,
It moves, the marvel of a dream.

With coursers six, are some that bring
The suite and kindred of the King;
Bold Sussex, honest Duke;

And him, the darling of renown,
A nation's idol, hope and crown,

Great Cumberland-whom yet the town

Salutes with sharp rebuke.

And not one lazy lacquey there

But glance of rapture drew,

Like tinselled hero at the fair

Of old Bartholomew.

Some rode, some walk'd. some trumpets blew, Some were with wands and some without; And all along the line of view

From pavement and from housetop too

Rose one continual shout;
That Charles the First at Charing-cross
His head, amazed, might seem to toss.
Rang all the Mall with needless noise,
From topmost Sams to Moon and Boys!

-:0:

THE SHOW IN LONDON.

(Thomas Campbell.)

His

[Let the design represent a middle-sized and middleaged poet, habited in blue, with buttons bearing the initials "P.L.U.C." He must be leaning on an anchor, reading the last account of the capture of Warsaw. books must be numerous and classical, but none bound in Russia, as it reminds him of despotism. A volume of his own poems should be lying before him, opened at 'Hohenlinden," as that exquisite composition has evidently suggested the idea of his new one, called "The Show in London."]

IN London when the funds are low,
And state-distresses deeper grow,
The rule is this-to have a show,

Designed with strict economy.

We here this cheapened show have had; Who now shall deem the nation sad! Distress was there superbly clad,

And Sorrow stalked not shabbily.

All, all the troops were out; who choose
To read the list their time may lose;
The gaudy Guards, the Oxford Blues,
Besides the Surrey Yeomanry.

And many a line of Foot appears,
With drummer-boys and pioneers,
And last, the Loyal Volunteers,

The drollest of the Infantry.

Not last; for of the New Police
Behold how one, in pure caprice,
The hat knocks off-to keep the peace-
Of idler, answering snarlingly.

That morn was seen by all the town
King William's brow without a crown;
But ere yon autumn sun went down,
'Twas circled most expensively.
The Debt still deepens. Could we save
A trifle, Hume might cease to rave.
Waive, Rundell, half your profits waive,
And charge as low as possible.
Few, few shall gain where many pay;
The people must the cost defray,
And give their guineas too to-day
For seats to see the pageantry,

:0:

THE ANCIENT MARINER. (S. T. Coleridge.)

[The author of "The Ancient Mariner," should be delineated after the poet's definition of him, as a "noticeable man with small grey eyes." A crowd of listeners should be around him, catching up with eagerness and ecstasy every syllable as it falls from his lips; and in a corner of the room there might be one or two persons reading his works, apparently puzzled at times to make out his meaning. On the walls should be representations of a giant devoting his life to catching flies; of a philosopher straying on the sea-shore to pick up shells, while the sails of the vessel that was to waft him to his home are scarcely to be descried in the distance.]

THE sun it shone on spire and wall,

And loud rang every bell;

Wild music, like a waterfall,

Upon my spirit fell ;

But the old grey Abbey was brighter than all,

Each spire was like a spell.

I breathed within that Abbey's bound,

It was a hallowed spot;

The walls they seemed alive with sound,
And hues the sky hath not.

Good lord, my brain was spinning round,
And methought, I knew not what.

Eleven o'clock, eleven o'clock !
My spirit feels a passing shock;
Eleven o'clock-you heard the chime;
Oh! many shall see the King this time.
My very heart it seems to sing,
And it leapeth up to see the King.