THE SKELETON AT THE FEAST.
"I confess it does seem to me that certain decisions made by a competent tribunal hare rendered it extremely doubtful whether there is a single one of the 670 gentlemen who now compose the House of Commons, who might not find himself, by some accident, unseated, if a full investigation were made into everything that had taken place in his constituency, say, during the ten years preceding his candidature."—Mr. Balfour at Sheffield.
M.P. (of any Party you please), loquitur:—
Phew! It's all very fine, when you gather to dine,
And to blow off the steam, while you blow off your 'bacca,
(As the farmers of Aylesbury did, when their wine
Was sweetened with "news from the Straits of Malacca");
But things are much changed since the voters of Bucks
Flushed red with loud fun at the phrases of Dizzy,
And M.P.'s are dreadfully down on their lucks,
Since Balfour's confounded "tribunals" got busy.
What precious stiff posers to loyal Primrosers
Are offered by Rochester, Walsall, and Hexham!
Platform perorators, post-prandial glosers,
Must find many points to perplex 'em and vex 'em.
It bothers a spouter who freely would flourish
Coat-tails and mixed tropes at political dinners,
When doubts of his safety he's driven to nourish,
Through publicans rash and (electoral) sinners.
Good lack, and good gracious! One may be veracious,
And look with disgust upon bribes and forced bias,
Yet owing to "Agents" more hot than sagacious,
Appear as Autolycus-cum-Ananias.
One might just as soon be a Man-in-the-Moon,
Or hark back at once to the style of Old Sarum.
That Act (Corrupt Practices) may be a boon.
But the way they apply it seems most harum-scarum.
Should a would-be M.P. ask old ladies to tea,
Or invite male supporters to crumpets or cricket;
Should a snug Party Club prove a trifle too free,
Or give an equivocal "treat," or hat-ticket;
A seven years' nursing of Slopville-on-Slime,
A well-fought Election and Glorious Victory
(Crowed o'er by proud Party prints at the time)
May—lose you your Seat. It does seem contradictory.
Of course, my good friends, one would not say a word,
Against England's glory—Electoral Purity!
Suspect me of slighting that boon? Too absurd!
But what good's a Seat without some small security.
To fight tooth and nail, land a win, and then fail
Along of dishon—I mean o'er-zealous "Agents"—
Well, well, I don't wish at our Judges to rail,
But—putting it plainly—I fear it won't pay, gents.
'Tis hard to attend a political feast,
And strut like a peacock, and crow like a bantam,
Yet feel at one's back, like a blast from the east,
A be-robed and be-wigged and blood-curdling law phantom.
Stentorian cheers, and uproarious hear-hears,
Though welcome, won't banish the sense of "wet-blanket"
(That's Ingoldsby's rhyme), when Petition-bred fears
Conjure up a grim Skeleton (Judge) at the Banquet!
