_Grand Old Jarvie, loquitur_:--

O Lud! O Lud! O Lud!
(As TOM HOOD cried, apostrophising London),
November rules, a reign of rain, fog, mud,
And Summer's sun is fled, and Autumn's fun done.
Far are the fields M.P.'s have tramped and gunned on!
Malwood is far, and far is fair Dalmeny,
And Harwarden,
Like a garden
(To Caucus-mustered crowds) glowing and greeny
In soft September,
Is distant now, and dull; for 'tis November,
And we are in a Fog!
Cabbin' it, Council? Ah! each _absent_ Member
May be esteemed a vastly lucky dog!
The streets are up--of course! No Irish bog
Is darker, deeper, dirtier than that hole
SP-NC-R is staring into. On my soul,
M-RL-Y, we want that light you're seeking, swarming
Up that lank lamp-post in a style alarming!
Take care, my JOHN, you don't come down a whopper!
And you, young R-S-B-RY, if _you_ come a cropper
Over that dark, dim pile, where shall _we_ be?
Pest! I can hardly see
An inch before my nose--not to say clearly.
Hold him up, H-RC-RT! He was down then, nearly,
Our crook-knee'd "crock." Seems going very queerly,
Although so short a time out of the stable.
Quiet him, WILLIAM, quiet him!--if you're able.