hat, frock coat, baggy trousers, patient stare, bored expression:
Suddenly you smile
And crook the pregnant hinges of the back of your neck.
Mrs. Wiggle, the three Misses Wiggle, and little Master Wiggle,
Wife, daughters, and son of Mr. Forthree Wiggle,
Draper, and burgess of the good old Parliamentary Division
Of Mudsher West,
Are up from Mudsher West,
And they want showin' round the 'Ouse, you know.
Round you go.
Again: you appear in the Strangers' Lobby,
Spectacles on nose, somebody's card in hand.
The policeman roars out name of leading constituent.
Leading constituent departed in a huff twenty minutes ago,
Because he thought you were not attending to him.
There being no answer,
Policeman roars out name of leading constituent once more.
Name echoes along Lords' Lobby;
But not being there, leading constituent fails to come forward.
You look embarrassed, turn tail, retire to your back bench,
And feel deucedly uncomfortable for the rest of the evening.
You would like to get away to the theatre,
But you dare not do it:
There are Whips about.
You would like to go home to bed;
You must wait the good pleasure of the course of the debate.
You would like to stand on your hind legs
And address the House on large matters:
But you know in your heart
That the House will stand absolutely nothing from you
Bar a question or so.
You sit, and sit, and sit through dull debate after dull debate,
And you sigh for the hustings and the brass bands,
And the banquets and the "He's-a-jolly-good-fellow"-s
And wonder how it comes to pass
That you, who were once set down in the Mudsher Mercury
For a blend of Demosthenes and John Bright,
Can never get more than twenty words off the end of your tongue
After "Mr. Speaker, Sir."
Oh! my dear Mr. Private Member,
Your case is indeed a sad one,
And it is all the sadder when one comes to reflect
That, as a general rule, you are a sincereish sort of man,
Burning and bursting with a desire
To do your poor suffering country
A bit of good.
You know that the men who have the ear of the House
Are mere talkers;
That they are only "playing the party game,"
And that the country may go to pot for anything they care.
And yet they make their speeches
And get them reported at length in the papers,
And are given places in the Cabinet,
And go for "dines-and-sleeps" with the King,
What time you grow old and grey and obese and bleary eyed,
And never get the smallest show.
I pity you, my dear Mr. Private Member, I do really.
But for your comfort I may tell you
That all you lack
Is courage
And brains.

TO THE TRUE-BORN BRITON

(After Peace Night)

Dear Sir, or Madam,
As the case may be,
When Britain first,
At Heaving's command,
Arose from out
The azure main,
This was the chawter
Of that land
And gawdian a-a-a-a-angels
Sang this strain:
Don't you think so?
For my own part,
I am quite sure of it:
Monday night convinced me.
Mafeking night,
As you may remember,
Was a honeyed
And beautiful affair.
But
Peace night,
I think,
Really outdid it in splendours.
At the cafe
Which I most frequent,
All was Peace.
Round the table next mine,
There were seventeen Jews,
With a Union Jack.
Ever and anon
(Between drinks, as it were),
They held up
That Union Jack
And yelled:
    "Shend him victoriouth,
    'Appy and gloriouth,
    Long to-o reign over uth,
    &c., &c."
I wonder, my dear Sir, or Madam,
Why the Jews are so pleased:
I can't make it out.
Howsomever,
Pleased they are,
And a pleased Jew
Is worth a king's ransom,
Or words to that effect.
Peace, my dear Sir, or Madam,
Is a chaste and choice
Thing.

Outside the aforesaid cafe,
The crowd
Was so numerous
And exuberant
That I was compelled
(Much to my annoyance, of course)
To remain inside
Till closing-time.
Then I went home
In the friendly embrace
Of a four-wheeler.
For a little while,
There was much shouting and yelling and roaring and squeaking and singing;
And then I knew
No more.
My cab
Bowled away
Through the sweet evening air
(That is to say,
If the common or Regent Street growler
Ever does bowl away),
And all the time
I snored.
Duly awakened
Outside my bungalow,
I raked up the fare,
And, in reply to kind enquiries
In the hall,
I remarked:
"Peace, O woman of mine,
Peace!"

TO THE CAMBRIDGE CREW

My dear Cambridge,
You have pulled it off,
As all men know.
This ode
Will make Oxford pretty sick;
But the spoils are to the victor.
If Oxford had rowed better
And won,
They should have had a nice new ode,
Like good boys;
But they have been and gone and lost,
And are, therefore,
Not fit subjects
For immortal verse.
Pah!
I pass by Oxford!
As for you, dear Cambridge,
Here's to you:
In spite of your long and honourable connection
With the manufacture
Of sossiges,
There appears to be something in you,
Which is more than can be said
For some of the sossiges.
Cambridge, my own,
You have won the bowt rice!
'Ave a drink!
What is the good of winning the bowt rice,
If you don't 'ave a drink?
I don't know,
And I'm sure you don't.
Also, what is the good
Of winning the bowt rice
At all?
I give it up.
Yes, I do really;
Please do let me give it up.
You have won;
You can afford to be generous;
Suffer me to indulge my little whim:
There is no good
In winning the bowt rice, Cambridge
No good at all.
On the other hand,
When I come to think of it
I am not quite sure
That to have rowed
In the Cambridge boat
Which won the bowt rice,
Is materially to have damaged
One's prospects or career:
At the very least, it makes one safe
For a tutor's job
At £80 per annum;
And what self-respecting person from Cambridge
Could wish for more?
I have heard of a man
Who rowed
In a winning Cambridge boat
And is now driving
A hansom cab.
And I have heard of another man
Who omitted to row
In a winning Cambridge boat
And is now driving a four-wheeler.
You see the difference, of course!
After all,
To row
In a winning Cambridge boat
Does give one
A sort of start in life,
And don't you forget it.
Always remember, my dear Cambridge, who you are.
You licked Oxford by five lengths
In 1902.
This is probably
All you will get
For your father's money.
Be thankful.

TO MR. DAN LENO

(On his Appearance at Sandringham)

Dear Mr. Dan Leno,—
This has been a great week
For Art—
One of the biggest weeks in fact
On record.
For at the beginning of the week, my dear Mr. Leno,
You were a mere popular entertainer,
Whereas at the present moment
You are a proud and 'appy man,
And in a position to walk about the Strand
With a diamond E
Scintillating in your cravat.
The thing that was anticipated
By the intelligent paragraphists,
My dear Mr. Leno,
Has come to pass.
His Britannic Majesty
King Edward VII., D.G.: B.