SONG OF THE AUTUMN SESSION.
(By a Reluctantly Returned M.P.)
Air—"O! that will be joyful!"
Here we suffer grief and pain,
Here we part to meet again:
No field, no copse, no moor!
O! it will be jawful,
Jawful, jawful, jawful!
O! isn't it awful?
Autumn Meet's an awful bore!
All who hate the "Lords," you know,
Swear this misery below,
We owe to peers above!
O! that, &c.
We'll be lammed by Labouchere,
Who the Afric strife will swear
Is due to Rhodes's rule.
O! won't he be jawful, &c.
Ashmead, too, will strive to prove
Freedom, prestige, all we love
We'll lose to gain no more,
Through Gladstone the jawful, &c.
O! how weary we shall be,
Ere the two Big Bills, or three,
Are passed and Peer-wards gone!
O! Weg will be jawful, &c.
Then the Rads will shout with joy,
And the short Recess employ,
In larrupping the Lords!
O! won't they be jawful?—
Awful, awful, awful!
It shouldn't be lawful
Autumn Meets to summon more!
The Whirligig of Time.—Wat Tyler is avenged—upon wicked Walworth, and unfair history. A namesake of his is to be Lord Mayor of London! All we want now is, that the Right Hon. Mr. John Cade (of Birmingham?) should be made Prime Minister.