The Row, the River, the Vitellian feed,--
All the munitions of the Social War,
Seem fruitless now, when peal on peal afar
And near, the beat of the great Party Drum
Rouses M.P.'s to platform joust and jar,
While tongue-tied dullards scarcely dare be dumb,
When the Whips whisper "Go!" Wirepullers clamour "Come!"

"Too bad! Too bad!" The Influenza chilled,
Court-mourning marred, the Season's earliest prime,
And now, just as with hope young breasts are filled,
When young leaves still are verdant on the lime,
When diners-out are having a good time,
When Epsom's o'er and Ascot is at hand;
To cut all short, is scarcely less than crime.
Confusion on that wrangling party-band
Whose Dissolution deals the doldrums round the land!

Ah! wild and high those Phantom-fiddlings rise!--
All jocund June with palsying terror thrills;
Fashion sits frozen dead with staring eyes.
How that dread dirge the ambient Summer fills
Savage and shrill! Smart frocks, soft snowy frills,
Long trains which dancing Beauty deftly steers.
Through waltzes wild or devious quadrilles,--
All vanish; bosoms white, beset with fears;
Beat flight as that fell strain falls harsh on Beauty's ears.

And June yet waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Springtide's night-drops as they pass