Oh! where are we next to be carried,
My own dear NICKLEBY NOD?
We're worried, and hurried, and harried!
In pickle has _no one_ a rod?
Obstruction's becoming a bore;
We're victims of boor, clown, and cad.
It seems of our "noble six hundred"
A solid majority's mad!
DICKENS was surely prophetic,
My own dear NICKLEBY NOD!
The plight of yourself is pathetic,
The state of the House appears odd.
_Can't_ we live quiet and decent?
The shindy makes common sense sad:
It seems from occurrences recent
The mass of the House _must_ be mad!
Whom should we ask to protect us,
My own dear NICKLEBY NOD?
A rowdy rot seems to infect us
And Nemesis looks leaden-shod.
Shouldn't we look to the Chair
To save us from garrulous fad,
When row-de-dow fills all the air,
And the bulk of the House is gone mad?
Cynics may find it amusing,
My own dear NICKLEBY NOD,
This venomous mutual abusing.
Thersites seems ranked as a god.
Billingsgate sways our big swells,
Talent plays Brummagem Cad.
'Tis worse than Sarcasm of Sadler's Wells.
You're mild--and your House is mad!
More is to come in the Autumn,
My own poor NICKLEBY NOD!
We trust by that time you'll have taught 'em
Some decency--e'en by the rod.
"Not say any more about it?"
_That_ will scarce answer, my lad!
Patience _may_ soothe, but I doubt it
Much--when the culprits are mad!
"Settled in some friendly manner?"
My own poor NICKLEBY NOD,
CHAMBERLAIN, SEXTON, and TANNER
(Say) as "fair friends" would look odd.
GLADSTONE, and BALFOUR, and SAUNDERSON,
_Might_ keep the peace, and be glad;
But while malignity maunders on
NICKLEBY policy's--mad!
"Some fair arrangement?"--_with RUSSELL?_
My own poor NICKLEBY NOD,
Hark how they howl, shriek, and hustle!
Nay; you must whip out the rod.
Wish you had brought it forth sooner.
NICKLEBY _role_, my dear lad,
Of mild, muddled, well-meaning mooner,
Won't work--with a House gone _mad_!
* * * * *
NEWS FROM UGANDA.--"A conference," so the _Times_ special lately
wrote, "took place between Bishop TUCKER and Monseigneur HIRTH," with
a view to amicably arranging their respective missions. Monseigneur
HIRTH wished to sing the old nigger melody of "_Out ob de way ole
Dan Tucker_." Imperial Commissioner objected. Bishop TUCKER, lineal
descendant of the celebrated little _Thomas_ who "cried for his
supper," wanted to have all the black and white bread to himself
according to the ancient nursery tradition of the TUCKER family.
Commissioner, quite a GALLIO in his way, wouldn't hear of it.
Ultimately the two ecclesiastical antagonists came to terms, the
Commissioner (Our Own) wisely observing that "as the object of both
missions was a spiritual one, there ought to be no Hirthly ground for
disagreement."
[Illustration: MRS. NICKLEBY IN THE CHAIR.]
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