Poor wretches! I think of the sum that they pay, To be cheated by harpies who ruin their peace; To be bitten by night and be bullied by day, And poisoned by cooking all reeking with grease; Whilst e’en the ozone that they yearn to obtain, And which to inhale they ’midst miseries tarry, Can only be breathed by the side of the main Arm-in-arm, so to speak, with gay ’Arriet and ’Arry In a month or two’s time I shall welcome them back―― Save those too unwell from abroad to return―― And some Roman Fever to England will track, Whilst others with ague will shiver and burn; And all will be writing complaints to the _Times_, To re-tell the story which every one knows, As couriers’ guile and hotel-keepers’ crimes They sadly repeat, and most sternly expose. _Truth_. August 13, 1885. ―――― THE LIMITED MONARCH. “Her Majesty’s ship _Monarch_, having then continued on her course at a speed of barely eight knots an hour, finally, when she was distant from Malta fully 250 miles, came to a dead stop, and broke down.” I’m the Monarch of all I survey, And Brassey the fact won’t dispute, For here I’ve been sticking all day Like some waterlogged sea-going brute! O Cheeseparing, where are the charms That Northbrook has seen in thy face! Look at _me_――in the midst of alarms!―― And yet mine’s but a typical case. But the upshot of all is quite clear; If matters go on as they do, Well, the Navy will soon disappear, And “My Lords,” well――they’ll disappear too! So now that I’m docked, and they find That I never was fit for the main, Let us hope that a thing of the kind Won’t occur――till it happens again! _Punch._ April 25, 1885 ―――― A SONG FOR MR. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN. O Society, where are the charms That once I could see in thy face? To escape from these Duchesses’ arms, I would live in a desolate place! But alas! since I’ve turned on my chief, My peace has been wrecked in this way, And nothing can bring me relief Whilst I still with the Unionists stay! Ah, me! I once said of the Primrose, ’Twas at best but a poor faded flow’r! But now Primrose Dames are my tyrants, And threaten my peace to devour. And instead of the orchid so famous My buttonhole once used to bear, ’Tis a primrose (of silver enamel) That now I’m expected to wear! __Truth. Christmas Number_, 1886. ―――― THE LAMENT OF THE SPORTIVE M.P. I am weary of all I survey, I am sick to the heart of debate; It is something too awful, I say, To be thus kept in London so late. O Parliament! where are the charms That candidates in thee can trace? For, worn out by the “Whips’” false alarms, I am sick of the horrible place!