Ah, yes; if e'er, in future hours,
When we this bill have all forgot,
They send it in again—ye powers!
And swear that we have paid it not—
How sweet to know, on such a day
We've never cast receipts away!
PARODY FOR A REFORMED PARLIAMENT. PUNCH.
The quality of bribery is deep stained;
It droppeth from a hand behind the door
Into the voter's palm. It is
twice dirty:
It dirts both him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis basest in the basest, and becomes
Low blacklegs more than servants of the Crown.
Those swindlers show the force of venal power,
The attribute to trick and roguery,
Whereby 'tis managed that a bad horse wins:
But bribery is below their knavish "lay."
It is the vilest of dishonest things;
It was the attribute to Gatton's self;
And other boroughs most like Gatton show
When bribery smothers conscience. Therefore, you,
Whose conscience takes the fee, consider this—
That in the cause of just reform, you all
Should lose your franchise: we do dislike bribery;
And that dislike doth cause us to object to
The deeds of W. B.
THE WAITER. PUNCH.
I met the waiter in his prime
At a magnificent hotel;
His hair, untinged by care or time,
Was oiled and brushed exceeding well.
When "waiter," was the impatient cry,
In accents growing stronger,
He seem'd to murmur "By and by,
Wait a little longer."
Within a year we met once more,
'Twas in another part of town—
An humbler air the waiter wore,
I fancied he was going down.
Still, when I shouted "Waiter, bread!"
He came out rather stronger,
As if he'd say with toss of head,
"Wait a little longer."
Time takes us on through many a grace;
Of "ups and downs" I've had my run,
Passing full often through the shade
And sometimes loitering in the sun.
I and the waiter met again
At a small inn at Ongar;
Still, when I call'd, 't was almost vain—
He bade me wait the longer.
Another time—years since the last—
At eating-house I sought relief
From present care and troubles past,
In a small plate of round of beef.
"One beef, and taturs," was the cry,
In tones than mine much stronger;
'T was the old waiter standing by,
"Waiting a little longer."
I've marked him now for many a year;
I've seen his coat more rusty grow;
His linen is less bright and clear,
His polished pumps are on the go.
Torn are, alas! his Berlin gloves—
They used to be much stronger,
The waiter's whole appearance proves
He can not wait much longer.
I sometimes see the waiter still;
'Gainst want he wages feeble strife;
He's at the bottom of the hill,
Downward has been his path through life.
Of "waiter, waiter," there are cries,
Which louder grow and stronger;
'Tis to old Time he now replies,
"Wait a little longer."