"Tich, Tich, Tich, Till the brain begins to swim, Tich, Tich, Tich, Till their eyes are heavy and dim. Stream, and minnow, and twitch, Minnow, and twitch, and stream, Till over the _tattoo_ they fall asleep, And see it done in a dream." "O, men, so callous and blind-- O, men, so bloated and rich-- It isn't Orton you're locking up, But the real and only 'Tich!' Tich, Tich, Tich, 'Prison'd, dishonour'd, opprest, Stitching at once with his sewing-machine, A shroud as well as a vest." (_Four verses omitted here._) With spirits drooping and worn. With eyelids as heavy as lead, The members sat in their place in the House, And wearily longed for bed; While Tich, Tich, Tich, With gruesome and long-drawn face, "The Doctor," with voice of dolorous pitch, (Ah me! to have to listen to sich), Sang the Song of "the Case." _Funny Folks_, October 2nd, 1875. * * * * * THE SONG OF THE TURK IN 1877. With arguments tattered and worn, With facts long torn to a shred, The statesman rose in eloquent rage To ply his political trade. Stump, stump, stump, Is this the successor of Burke, Who, with a voice of dolorous pitch, Still sings his song of the Turk? Turk, Turk, Turk! While the Czar is biting the dust. And Turk, Turk, Turk, The incarnation of lust. It's O to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk, Where women have never a soul to save, And only a body for--work! Turk, Turk, Turk! Till the brain begins to swim. Turk, Turk, Turk, Till the audience is eager and grim. Rape, and outrage, and murder, And outrage, murder, and rape, Till stories, long since disproved, appear To assume a bodily shape. O, men, with sisters dear! O, men, with mothers and wives! These are things that are wearing away Bulgarian Christian lives. Stump, stump, stump, It's not uncongenial work, To be damning away, with a double tongue, The Tory as well as the Turk. Turk, Turk, Turk! My labour never flags, Yet, what are its wages? A Nottingham feast, And a suit of political rags, A broken party, a shattered name, A smile from the "Daily News," A bloody war, and a future so blank That my mind the thought eschews. Turk, Turk, Turk! On the chill October night, And Turk, Turk, Turk, When the weather is warm and bright. And yet, underneath the theme A longing for power lurks. So the people of England show me their backs, And twit me about my Turks. Oh, but to breathe the air Of the Treasury Bench so sweet, With never a soul above my head, And Lord Beaconsfield under my feet! Oh, but for one short hour, To feel as I used to feel, When the Liberal Government was in power, And I was the man at the wheel!