“About, about each pair stepped out, And still they bowed that night The crowd went on, and on, and on, All yellow, blue, and white. “Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide space, And never a thing to think upon, Save nodding to that face. “I looked it o’er, I tried to bow, But or ever my head had bent The basket filled with bread tipped up Right off my head it went. “The bread it hit the Chairman’s head, And left a mark, they say, The look with which he looked at me Has never passed away.” The Blue-coat Boy, whose eye was bright, Whose coat was torn and poor, Is gone, and now the Supper Guest Turns from that ancient door. He went like one who has been stunned, And is of sense unsound, They haunt his dreams, those crowds of Blues All bowing, bowing round. Gleanings from “_The Blue_.” 1881. _The Blue_ was a small journal published by, and for, the Blue-coat School Boys, at Christ’s Hospital, London. ―――― THE RIME OF THE POTENT MINISTER. It is a potent Minister, And he stoppeth an M.P. “By the ancient rules of Parliament, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? The Speaker rises in his chair; Eftsoons debate will close. Ere it be late, I fain would state Why I this Bill oppose.” “Let Speaker rise; let bell ring out; Division lobbies fill. Vote mayst thou quick; thou shalt not speak.” The Minister hath his will, The Member mutely gave his vote; Still as a stone was he; And thus spake on that potent man, Head of the Ministry: “My followers press, the Tories talk; And thus our course is slow. But with my _Clôture_, I have made sure It shall no more be so. “So then attend, my Tory friend, Or Irish if thou be, Or Independent Liberal, Or Radical M.P. “He speaketh well who loveth well My measures great and small; But he who favoureth them not, He should not speak at all. “He speaketh best who speaketh least, Whate’er his views may be. A silent vote be yours, my friend; The speaking leave to me.” That Member paired him with a friend, Of different views be sure; And as no more his voice was heard, So never more himself appeared In the dumb-show of _Clôture_. _Punch._ March 18, 1882. ―――― OUR REGIMENTAL MESS. The baccy blew; the cocktails flew, The whisky followed free. I was the first whose buttons burst From too much S and B. Down dropt the cap’n; the colonel dropt down, ’Twas as droll as droll could be; And they did fall only to bawl An oath with a big big D. All in a hot and smoky room A noisy “sub” at nine, Right on the dinner board did stand, And upset half the wine. Man after man, man after man, We fell, not one was able; As idle as a painted corpse Beneath a painted table.