And handed a parcel up to the old boy,
With a smile which was childlike and pleasant.
The Potentate he, at the deuce of a pace,
At the string set to fumbling and maulin';
Then Croker laughed madly to see his blank face—
For the package had nothing at all in.
The Potentate smiled—'twas a sad, sickly smile;
And he laughed—but the laughter was hollow.
"Ha! a capital joke. It doth greatly beguile;
But," said he, "there is something to follow.