No farther seek the system to expose, Or stop the ticket COLONEL JEBB bestowed; To spoil the child the British public chose, And on the grown-up Convict spares the rod. _Punch._ November 29, 1856. A LUNATIC PARODY. The curlew rolls amidst the darting spray, And showy birds ride boldly o’er the sea, Striving the foaming clods to clear away, And leave the earth to chaos and to me. The glades are simmering in the red moonlight, And Hanwell all a solemn stillness holds; Nay, e’en the beadle feels the moaning light, And jelly sparkles in the glistening moulds. There on the jagged shells ’neath beauty’s shade, Where melancholy watch the mole doth keep, Each in his waistcoat straight for ever laid, The well-bred lunatics of Hanwell sleep. Haply, some keeper, hard-hearted, may say, Oft have we seen him calling to the moon, Beck’ning, with hasty thumb, the stars away, To meet the sun when he comes out at noon. There at the foot of yonder nodding tower, That breathes so bold beneath the azure sky, He’d form himself of oyster-shells a bower, And pour his look on all that travelled by. One noon we missed him, as about we dodged, He drew his breath, but nothing could we see; Another came――we had him safely lodged In the asylum of Colwell Hanley. _Fun._ April 1, 1865. ――――:o:―――― ELEGY, WRITTEN IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. The big clock tolls the knell of parting day, The tired WHIPS clubward now do adjourn to tea, The SPEAKER homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the House to darkness, and to me. Now fade the Treasury Benches on the sight, The mace no more my languid eye beholds; No longer WHALLEY wheels his drony flight; No longer GLADSTONE eloquently scolds. Only from yonder gilt and fretted tower BIG BENJAMIN doth to the night complain, Recording mournfully the passing hour, And pealing forth his mellow-toned refrain. Unnoticed now beneath the gallery’s shade, Where the mice gambol, and the beetles creep, Prone on the floor-cloth worn and half-decayed, The Echoes of Reform are laid to sleep. The freezing chill of CRANBOURNE’S bitter scorn, HOPE blundering hopelessly through what he said, Sarcastic jibes and platitudes well worn, No more shall rouse them from their dusty bed. For them no more the fierce Debate shall burn, Nor shrewd reporters ply their evening care; No clamour for return upon return Shall change their weary longing to despair. Oft did the COMMONS to their influence yield, The new-elected ne’er escaped their yoke; LOCKE-KING and BAINES through them obtained a field, Administrations fell beneath their stroke.