They promised they would, and they’ve got it still, For up to the present the “piece” is nil; But see it finished perhaps we shall When they both come out of the hospital. The New Cure. [TO MR. SMITH.] Mr. Smith, you’re very worried, And your face looks very sad, By the Gladstonites you’re flurried, Their behaviour is so bad; And your liver is affected, And you’re bilious as well, But you need not be dejected, You’ll be sound, sir, as a bell If you switchback, If you switchback-- If you switchback, sir, forthwith. It’s a patented health-giver, It will act upon your liver, If you switchback, Mr. Smith. [MR. SMITH REPLIES.] Mr. D., I’m gay and jolly, And my fingers I can snap At the Opposition folly, And the Parnellites who yap. I can view the situation With a calm, contented smile, And, whate’er the aggravation, Keep my temper all the while; For I’ve switchbacked, For I’ve switchbacked-- For I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.; And that patented health-giver Has, in acting on my liver, Made another man of me. [TO A JUDGE.] Henry Hawkins, people mutter, That dyspeptic pain at times Is the cause of words you utter When a-sitting upon crimes; When your liver’s wrong, your fury Can no murderer withstand, And you sum up to the jury With the black cap in your hand. You should switchback, You should switchback; Please, Sir Henry, don’t say “Fudge!” For the switchback it will shake you, Stir your liver up, and make you Quite a nice agreeable judge. [SIR HENRY REPLIES.] Mr. D., no more dyspeptic, I am called a kindly man; Of a prisoner’s worth no sceptic, I defend him all I can. My delight and my endeavour Is the jury to restrain, And restore a culprit clever To his loving friends again. For I’ve switchbacked, For I’ve switchbacked-- Yes, I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.; And that patented health-giver Has, in acting on my liver, Made another judge of me. That New-born Babe. There was once a new-born infant; at the moment of its birth It became the greatest villain that was ever known on earth. For there wasn’t any item in the catalogue of crime Which that babe had not committed in the briefest space of time. When its little peepers opened to their primal ray of light They’d a look of dissipation and of being out all night, And, before a score of seconds had passed o’er its infant head, It had, in a fit of passion, kicked its mother out of bed.