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.