THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.
(Slightly altered from the Poet Laureate).
To the Bill he whispers gaily,
"Land Bill, I the truth must tell—
You're a nuisance; but believe me
That I really love you well!"
She replies, that Irish Maiden,
"No one I respect like thee."
He is Lord of ancient Hatfield,
And a simple Land Bill she.
So most kindly he receives her
Merely with two hours' reproof,
Leads her to the Lords' Committee,
And she leaves her GLADSTONE'S roof.
"I will strive to guard and guide you,
And your beauty not impair;
Only add a few amendments,
Prune a section here and there.
Let us try these little clauses
Which the wealthy Lords suggest;
No connection with FITZMAURICE,
Or with HENEAGE and the rest!"
All he tells her makes her queerer,
Evermore she seems to yearn
For her Commons and her GLADSTONE,
And the moment of return.
And while now she wonders wildly
Why she feels inclined to sink,
Proudly turns the Lord of BURLEIGH,
"I have drawn your teeth, I think!"
Then her countenance all over
Pale and (emerald) green appears,
As he kicks her down the staircase,
'Mid their Lordships' wicked jeers.
But her GLADSTONE looked upon her,
Lying lifeless, worn, and spent,
And he said, "Your dress is ragged—
These must be arrears of rent."
Deeply mourns the Lord of BURLEIGH,
No one more distressed than he,
When the PREMIER moved the Commons
With the Peers to disagree.
And they gathered softly round her,
Did the Commons, and they said,
"Bring the dress we sent her forth in—
That will raise her from the dead!"
Punch, August 13, 1881.
The Figaro of January 22, 1873, contained a long parody (eleven verses), entitled, "The Lord of Burleigh," but it is not now of sufficient interest to warrant its reproduction.