_Funny Folks_, October 9, 1875. ―――――――― THE STOKER. Once in February dreary, while the Commons, weak and weary, Pondered many a quaint and curious Tory measure then in store, While they nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the chamber-door; “Some new member ’tis,” they muttered, “tapping at our chamber-door; ’Tis KENEALY――nothing more!” But the house was in a flutter when, without a “Hem” or stutter, In there walked a stately Counsel some of them had seen before; Not the least obeisance made he――not a minute stopped or stayed he, But with mien of ancient member took his place upon the floor, Hitched his “gamp” upon the mace, and hung his hat behind the door―― Hitched and stood, and nothing more! Stood the Counsel grim, beguiling their “gay wisdom” into smiling By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore―― “None come here without proposer,” said the Speaker, as a poser; “’Tis the Parliamentary custom for two hundred years and more;” But outspoke the doughty Premier, “Truly all know how he came here;” He’s KENEALY――nothing more! Mr. Whalley, sitting lonely on his placid bench, spoke only But one word, as if his soul on that one word he did outpour; Nothing further then he uttered. He was just a little fluttered. While a host of members muttered, “Other bores have flown before; Some fine morning he will leave us as our bores have left before.” WHALLEY whispered, “Nevermore!” Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said they, “what he utters is his only stock and store, Caught from Liberal disaster when that party had no master, When mistakes came fast and faster, and their songs one burden bore, When the dirges of their hopes that melancholy burden bore Of never, nevermore.” Members willing to be civil said, “Oh, quit the Tichborne drivel! By the roof that bends above us――by the Commons we adore. Tell our souls with sorrow laden that our Parliamentary Aidenn Shall not echo with the name of “_Arthur Orton_” any more; That the mystery unriddled who the name Sir Roger bore Shall not vex us any more!” But Kenealy, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting With his gingham hitched upon the mace, his hat behind the door, And his eyes have all the seeming of a Counsel who is dreaming, And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor, And the Commons, in that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Have a pretty treat in store!