“Within this vehicle,” I asked, “How many may there be?” “How many?” roughly he replied; “Why don’t you look and see.” “But where is room? I see no room?” My wrath I tried to smother. He answered――“On one side are six, And only five on t’other.” “Two of the five,” I pointed out, “Must weigh a ton between ’em; Two others have such tattered garbs As barely serve to screen ’em.” Then did the little “Cad” rejoin, “Yet they are only five; If you’re a-coming by this ’bus, I wish you’d look alive!” “’Tis shameful,” angrily I said, “To play your fares such tricks! If two do take the room of three, Then surely there are six.” “You’re jolly green, that may be seen!” The rude Conductor cried; “Until I’ve got twelve passengers, I am _not_ ’full inside.” “I always travel in a ’bus,” I thought it right to say, “And frequently am over-pressed In this atrocious way. “My little bag I love to bring, My paper here I read, And, when there’s proper elbow-room, ’Tis very nice indeed. “A Magistrate has just declared You have no right to pack us, And――ah, I see _that_ person is A votary of Bacchus! “A nice quintette! The more I look I seem to grow the sicker; Two elephants――two more in rags―― The fifth, he is in liquor! “But Mr. Partridge, _he_ will see These wrongs are not repeated――” ’Twas wasting words, for with a frown The ’Bus Conductor knocked me down, And cried. “_Now_ you are seated!” _Punch._ April 18, 1885. ―――― THEY ARE SEVEN. I marvelled why he looked so wild, And fiercely drew his breath; That Tory, who had lately smiled, But now looked pale as death. His cranium seemed in such a whirl, He hated Fate, he said―― His hair was sadly out of curl, He lowly bent his head. Said I, “The members in for ‘Brum,’ All one sort seem to be.” “Yes, seven in all,” he said, quite glum, But, there, _we’ve_ no M. P.!” “And who are they?” I asked, “Say, do!” Quoth he, “Cook, Broadburst, Bright, And Williams, Kenrick, Dixon, too―― And ‘Joe’ has won _his_ fight!” “What, not e’en Randolph in,” said I. “That Birmingham batch to leaven?” “Ah, no,” he sadly made reply, “Not _one_, while _they_ have Seven!” “Nay raise your head,” I gently said, “Let mirth your mourning leaven; Why, look at Liverpool”――but he Still moaned “In ‘Brum’ we’ve no M. P., While Liberals they have Seven!” _Fun._ December 2, 1885. ―――― “WE ARE SEVEN.” ――――A Radical, With tenets all complete, Whose name is Joseph Chamberlain―― How should _he_ know defeat? I met――no little cottage gal, With curls around her head,―― But Joe, the conquering Radical, He’s more than seven, he said.