But Parliament took up the Prince’s case,
And the young P.C., with a scared, white face,
Read out to his pal the big debate—
“It’s awfully hot,” said the magistrate.
Then the constable said, “It’s the blooming Press
As has settled our nice little games, I guess;
We’d better resign, as the row’s so great”—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.
The Imperial Institute.
(AFTER LORD TENNYSON.)
AIL, O Imperial Institute!
Strike the tabor, and play the lute,
This is South Kensington’s latest fruit:
Hail, O Imperial Institute!
Rise in thy might and make envy mute,
Slanderous sneer and snarl refute,
Slap the face of the bellowing brute,
Noble Imperial Institute!
Our Prince he promised that, coûte que coûte,
He’d find us a brand-new site to suit,
And leave the “clique” and its ill-repute
Outside the Imperial Institute.
So, hail Imperial Institute!
India, Colonies, Kyles of Bute,
Lands of Britain by every route,
Heligoland to far Tirhoot,
Into our laps your treasure shoot,
For you’ll guess if you’re only slightly cute
That there’ll always be plenty of room for “loot”
In the noble Imperial Institute.
The Plan of Campaign.
