The Queen went out of the court in tears, As the Bench indulged in some parting sneers; And skilly and toke was the Prince’s fate-- “It’ll do him good,” said the magistrate. But Parliament took up the Prince’s case, And the young P.C., with a scared, white face, Read out to his pal the big debate-- “It’s awfully hot,” said the magistrate. Then the constable said, “It’s the blooming Press As has settled our nice little games, I guess; We’d better resign, as the row’s so great”-- “_I believe you, my boy_,” said the magistrate. The Imperial Institute. (AFTER LORD TENNYSON.) Hail, O Imperial Institute! Strike the tabor, and play the lute, This is South Kensington’s latest fruit: Hail, O Imperial Institute! Rise in thy might and make envy mute, Slanderous sneer and snarl refute, Slap the face of the bellowing brute, Noble Imperial Institute! Our Prince he promised that, coûte que coûte, He’d find us a brand-new site to suit, And leave the “clique” and its ill-repute Outside the Imperial Institute. So, hail Imperial Institute! India, Colonies, Kyles of Bute, Lands of Britain by every route, Heligoland to far Tirhoot, Into our laps your treasure shoot, For you’ll guess if you’re only slightly cute That there’ll always be plenty of room for “loot” In the noble Imperial Institute. The Plan of Campaign. The heart of the nation is throbbing with grief At the tales that are told of the winter distress; We are longing to hear of some scheme of relief That will make London’s burthen of misery less. But what we’re to do, or how best to commence, There’s nobody able, it seems, to explain. O, isn’t there someone with courage and sense To draw up a workable Plan of Campaign? The work of the nation is all in arrears: We tinker the laws that need thorough repair, We potter about between Commons and Peers, And fools in the Senate their eloquence air. To rout the obstruction that stands in the way, And wields a long tongue and gives battle to brain, Is there none who can marshal a force for the fray, And act on a sensible Plan of Campaign? There are women of England who toil for their bread-- Poor hard-working sisters and mothers and wives, Whose years are a slavery, dreary and dread, Who drag out their cruel and colourless lives. Can nothing be done that may better their state? Shall the white women slaves in their bondage remain? O, manhood of Britain! think, think of their fate, And start the New Year with some Plan of Campaign. The People’s Palace.