“Sweethearts and lovers, lovely maid, How many may they be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said, And gave a leer at me. “And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, “Seven are they, And two of them in Bedlam dwell, And two have run away. “Two more of them are underground And then there is another Who ――――Ga ’long you naughty man, Or else I’ll call my mother.” I went along. That beauteous maid Has followed me through life; But now, alas! I sue no more, Because――she is my wife. ―――― “WE ARE SEVEN.” [The seven members who thus attained for a night a most unenviable notoriety were Mr. Parnell, Mr. O’Connor Power, Mr. Richard Power, Mr. O’Donnell, Captain Nolan, Major O’Gorman, and Mr. Whalley.] ’Tis Peterborough’s simple child, Who knows not what he saith, Replies to me in utterance wild, And somewhat out of breath. He has a rustic woodland air, And he is strangely clad; His eyes are wild, unkempt his hair, As one a little mad. “Of those who bring the House disgrace, How many may there be?” “Why, seven,” he said, with vacant face,―― “There’s seven――counting me!” “But he who doth at Cavan dwell Foremost is wont to be; Yet you are ‘seven’――I pray you tell, My friend, how that may be.” He kept to the same statement still, “Obstructives seven are we; Our task to hinder every bill, Aid spoil whate’er may be. “And often after sunset, sir, Until the morning fair, The weary House we keep astir, And eat our breakfast there.” “We thought that Biggar and Parnell Alone the House had driven”―――― Again the self-same accents fell, “Oh, master, we are seven!” _Funny Folks._ July 21, 1877. ―――― THEY ARE FIVE. I met a statesman old and worn, He was threescore years and more, And in his trembling hand were borne Vague Resolutions three or four. [This is the first verse of a parody dated May, 1877, which occurs in a small anonymous pamphlet, entitled, _They are Five_, published by David Bogue, London. The parody consists of twelve dull verses, and is quite out of date.] ―――― “WE ARE SEVEN.” (_The Birmingham Version._) ――――A Grand Old Man, By self-conceit so eaten, He cannot bring himself to feel That he’s completely beaten. He met a Midland Radical, From Birmingham came he, And eye-glass, orchid, monogram All showed ’twas Joseph C――――. J. C.’d a perky, well-pleased air, His “frock” was buttoned tight, The glance that through his eye-glass shot Was jubilant and bright, “Ah,” said the G. O. M. to him, “Your face I surely know. Methinks you hie from Birmingham. Say, how do things there go?”