The Tory Premier’s Dream.
Our leaders sang truce—for the session had lowered,
And a cloud had come o’er the political sky;
And the Parliament sank on the ground over-powered,
The Liberals to shout, and the Tories to cry.
After feeding that night on my pork chop so raw
With the vote-guarding “faggot” still haunting my brain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice e’er the cock crew I dreamed it again.
Methought from the Polling-booth’s dreadful array