(In November.)
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.
This is no spot for him to fall. I dread
The need—just here—of "sitting on his head."
Cutting the traces
Will leave us dead-lock'd, here of all bad places!
Oh, do keep quiet, K-mb-rl-y! You're twitching
My cape again! Mind, Asq-th! You'll be pitching
Over that barrier, if you are not steady.
Fancy us getting in this fix—already!
Cabbin' it in a fog is awkward work,
Specially for the driver, who can't shirk,
When once his "fare" is taken.
I feel shaken.
'd rather drive the chariot of the Sun
(That's dangerous, but rare fun!)
Like Phaëthon,
Than play the Jehu in a fog so woful
To this confounded "Shoful"!
