CHORIC SONG.
Why are we weighed upon with weariness,
With foreign crises and with home distress,
When all we do is mocked at by the Press?
All men like peace: why should we toil alone?
We always toil, and nevermore have rest;
But yield perpetual jest,
Still from one blunder to another thrown:
Nor ever pack our tricks,
And cease from politics;
Nor vote our last against the wild O'Connor;
Nor hearken what the moving spirit said,
"Let there be Peace with Honour!"
Why should we always toil, when England's trust is dead?
Let us alone. What pleasure could we have
To war with Afghans? But the Chief said "Fight!
The times are perilous and the Jingoes rave,
Whate'er I do is right."
Yea, interests are hard to reconcile;
'Tis hard to please yet help the little isle;
We have done neither quite.
Though we change the music ever, yet the people scorn our song;
O rest ye, brother Ministers, we shall not labour long.
AUGUSTO MENSE POETA.
(C. J. Billson.)
In the year 1868, when the mania for trapeze performances was at its height, and men and women were nightly risking their lives to please the thoughtless audiences at the music halls, The Tomahawk had some powerful cartoons (drawn by Matt Morgan) in condemnation of this senseless and dangerous form of entertainment; it also published the following parody of—