Even those who do nothing in office understand what to promise when out;
There wouldn't be waste any more—not enough to make meat for a mouse—
If Gladstone was at the Exchequer, and Hartington leading the House.
Pattering upon the platform—they'll all be pattering soon,
When Beaconsfield makes up his mind to dissolve them some fine afternoon,
I seem to be sick of it all—I know every word they'll say,
And perhaps it will come even sooner, for some are beginning to-day.
So this is a time of peace—of peace with honour, you know;
And empty have grown my pockets—they never used to be so;
At least, not often, I think. I never was one to boast,