They sat them down upon the yellow chairs, And feasted gaily as in days of yore; And sweet it was to jest of late affairs, Of Ward and Power and Cat; but evermore Most weary seemed the Session almost o'er, Weary Hibernian nights of barren seed. Then some one said, "We shall come here no more!" And all at once they cried, "No more, indeed! The ballot shall release; we will no longer lead!" CHORIC SONG. Why are we weighed upon with weariness, With foreign crises and with home distress, When all we do is mocked at by the Press? All men like peace: why should we toil alone? We always toil, and nevermore have rest; But yield perpetual jest, Still from one blunder to another thrown: Nor ever pack our tricks, And cease from politics; Nor vote our last against the wild O'Connor; Nor hearken what the moving spirit said, "Let there be Peace with Honour!" Why should we always toil, when England's trust is dead? Let us alone. What pleasure could we have To war with Afghans? But the Chief said "Fight! The times are perilous and the Jingoes rave, Whate'er I do is right." Yea, interests are hard to reconcile; 'Tis hard to please yet help the little isle; We have done neither quite. Though we change the music ever, yet the people scorn our song; O rest ye, brother Ministers, we shall not labour long. AUGUSTO MENSE POETA. (_C. J. Billson._) * * * * * In the year 1868, when the mania for trapeze performances was at its height, and men and women were nightly risking their lives to please the thoughtless audiences at the music halls, _The Tomahawk_ had some powerful cartoons (drawn by Matt Morgan) in condemnation of this senseless and dangerous form of entertainment; it also published the following parody of-- A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. I read, before I fell into a doze, Some book about old fashions--curious tales Of bye-gone fancies--kirtles and trunk hose-- Of hoops, and fardingales-- Of mediæval milliners, whose taste Preluded our vile fashions of to day-- Of how they moulded the ancestral waist With steel-bound taffeta-- Of powdered heroes of the later days-- Of Hamlets strutting in their full court suits, Slouch-hatted villains of transpontine plays, All belt and bucket boots-- So shape chased shape (as swiftly as, when knocks Of angry tradesmen bluster at the door, Turgid with envelopes my letter box Boils over on the floor). Till fancy, running riot in my brain, Elbowed the PAST from out the PRESENT'S way; And opened in my dream, distinct and plain, A vision of to-day.