Oh office my haven, though by me forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy lucrative store, But alas, by the Colonel thrown out I awaken, And sigh for the votes that support me no more. And thou my Lord Grey, will you never replace me, In a post where electors no longer can chase me; Ah, never again shall old Glory embrace me, Or will he too go out with his Hob to deplore. Where now is the Westminster rump that supported Sir Frank and myself? we must weep for its fall, And where is the junta, that influence sported, And where is De Vear too the dearest of all? Alas what an ass I have been for declining My seat! what a fool I have been for resigning My office! but now there is no use in whining, It cannot my seat or my office recal. But yet all my bitter reflections repressing, There is one dying wish my fond bosom shall draw, De Vear, thy old _protegé_ gives thee his blessing, Thou ghost of the rump! my De Vear then go bragh. Kicked out of my seat, when (oh bitterest potion) I’ve no longer the means of proposing a motion In the House, I’ll still out of it sing with devotion, You’ve been a kind friend dear De Vear then go bragh.” _Figaro in London_, May 18, 1833. This Parody refers to the late Sir John Cam Hobhouse (Lord Broughton), who long represented Westminster in Parliament, he was succeeded by Sir De Lacy Evans, then Colonel De Lacy Evans. The “Sir Frank” alluded to in the fourth verse was Sir Francis Burdett, a very advanced Radical politician for those days. He was the father of Lady Burdett Coutts, whose husband has recently been elected member for Westminster in the Conservative interest. ―――― THE EXILE OF ERIN; _Or, Mitchell in Norfolk Island_. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his breeches was heavy and chill; He thought of the days of his spouting and “beering,” As he rattled his chains on the wind-beaten hill. He looked towards the north with an air of devotion, And thought of the very green isle of the ocean, Which once he had put in such awful commotion By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-bragh! “Sad is my fate,” said the gray-coated stranger, “My cousins, the apes to their caverns can flee, But I in a chain-gang of convicts must range here; Repose or tobacco exist not for me; Ne’er again in the snug little bar Where my ancestors dwelt, shall I smoke the cigar. Or cheer on the rabble of Dublin to war By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-Bragh! _The Puppet Show_, May 27, 1848. ―――― THE VISIT TO ERIN.