The scene in Parliament last night,
Sir William’s letter;
‘And do you like the electric light,
Or gas-lamps better?’
The strike among the dust-heap pickers
He said was over;
And had I read about the liquors
Just seized at Dover?
Or the unhappy printer lad
At Rothesay drowned?
Or the Italian ironclad
That ran aground?
He told me stories (lately come)
Of good society,
Some slightly tinged with truth, and some
With impropriety.
He spoke of duelling in France,
Then lightly glanced at
Mrs. Mackenzie’s monster dance,
Which he had danced at.
So he ran on, till by-and-by
A silence came,
For which I greatly fear that I
Was most to blame.
Then neither of us spoke a word
For quite a minute,
When presently a thought occurred
With promise in it.
‘How did you like the Shakespeare play
The students read?’
By this, the Eden like a bay
Before us spread.
Near Eden many softer plots
Of sand there be;
Our feet, like Pharaoh’s chariots,
Drave heavily.
And ere an answer I could frame,
He said that Irving
Of his extraordinary fame
Was undeserving,