The sluggard and late comer Their right to seats must waive, But a card stuck on the bench at prayers Will disappointment save. For architects will fail again Where BARRY failed before, And ye’ll creep, like penned sheep, Through another crowded door, While uttering curses loud and deep, To the over-crowded floor. In the present House of Commons But few attempt to speak, For some have not the gift of tongue, And some not that of cheek. But in the new Reformed House There be at least ten score Who, like BRIGHT, every night, Forth their eloquence will pour, And speeches make, both loud and long, As ne’er were heard before. To meet your wants in future, And find you room in turn. Gives HEADLAM, THOMSON HANKEY, And Bazley great concern: O’er plans and elevations Right patiently they pore, For they know ’tis no go To find space for any more, When debates are waxing loud and long, And the SPEAKER’S heard to snore. _Echoes from the Clubs_, November 27, 1867. ―――― THE SCREAM OF THE AMERICAN EAGLE; OR, THE CROW OF YANKEE-DOODLE. You sneaking skunks of England, Who stay at home at ease, Who think because you never fight You’re rulers of the seas: Another pirate launch again To match a New York foe, For the fame of your name Which has had so sad a blow, While we Yankees bluster loud and long, And over England crow. The shattered “Alabama” Lies deep beneath the wave, Your finest guns and gunners Their vessel couldn’t save, When our noble ship, the “Kearsarge,” Her shot and shell did throw, To the bottom in an hour Did the “Alabama” go, And we Yankees bluster loud and long, And over England crow. The flag of old Columbia Shall ne’er again be furled Till, having scourged the Southern States, We whip the whole wide world; With real lightning from our guns Our thunderbolts we’ll throw, Till not a single Britisher Upon the seas doth show, Then won’t we bluster loud and long And over England crow. Yes, then, you sneaking Britishers, Our song and feast shall flow When we sink your Island, Queen and all, Old ocean’s depths below, And masters of the ’varsal airth We’ll liquor to and fro, Drink gin-slings with our Irish slaves And trumpets loudly blow To the fame of our name, And o’er the whole world crow. From _Lyrics and Lays_, by PIPS (Wyman Bros., Calcutta, 1867). ―――― THE FENIANS’ RAGING FURY: _Or, Legal Ireland’s Sufferings_.