UNLUCKY SPEECHES.
She (giving him a flower). "Sweet as the Giver?"
He (wishing to be very complimentary indeed). "Oh—sweeter far!"
Dear Charlie,—O 'ip, 'ip, 'ooray, an' three more, and a tiger! Great Scott!
I'm as 'appy as ten on 'em, Charlie, though thusty and thundering 'ot.
I've bin up to my eyes in it this time, and now these 'ere Polling Returns
Are a-sending me slap off my chump, though I'm sorry they didn't chuck Burns.
Oh! I'm feeling O K and a arf; I could stand on my 'ed with delight,
For the Rads are knocked out in three rounds, 'Ome Rule's smashed, and Old England's all right.
And although it is late, and I'm tired, I'm so full of our Glorious Win,
That I feel I must sit down and drop yer a line, mate, afore I turn in.
I'm the Pet of the Primrosers, Charlie, and, 'ang it, I've earned it all round,
For I've worked like a nig, and no error. It suits me right down to the ground.
I've canvassed and posted tremenjous, I'm 'usky with cheer and chi-ike,
And I've mounted the Unionist colours, and blazed round the streets on a bike.
There was full arf a mile on us, Charlie, a scarlet percession on wheels;
With Japanese lanterns a-flying, and 'underds o' kids at our 'eels.
I felt I was "charging the guns," like that brave Ballyclava Brigade,
With shouts for "Lord Mungo and Malt!" and a little one in for "The Trade."
I tell yer, old man, 'twos hexciting. We dashed along Mulberry Scrubs.
And up the 'igh street a rare buster, 'ocrayed by the bhoys at the Pubs.
We scooted around for ten mile, the 'ole distance one thunderin' cheer;
And when we pulled up at the "Crown," if you'd just seen me lower the beer!
I lapped off a quart in one quencher. "That's rippin'!" sez I to the Bung.
"I felt liked a dashed wooden 'orse, with a lump o' red leather for tongue."
"Ah!" sez 'e, "and jest fancy, old man, if them Vetoers 'ad their vile way,
Wy, I couldn't sell you a tankard, and you wouldn't 'ave any say!"
But jimminy-whizz, 'ow we squelched 'em! We got our man in two to one,
Though our neighbourhood used to vote Rad, and a Tory was not in the run.
Wot beans it must be to old 'Arcourt, wot toko to Lawson and Caine!
Well, they've got their fair arnser this time; let us 'ope they won't try it again.
Workin'-men on the Radical ramp? You should jest 'ear wot I 'ear, old pal.
Let big pots make the round o' the pubs, and they won't talk that footy fal-lal.
Labour wants steddy work and good wyges, and likes to see England look big;
And then, with its baccy and beer, it's all one to it, Tory or Whig.
Wot's it care for Welsh Churches, or Scotch 'uns, as don't 'ardly enter its own?
And as to 'Ome Rule—for yer worker there's dashed little meat on that bone.
Talk of Betterment, Progress, Peer-smashing, and such-like, may do for the Clubs;
But all Labour gits is 'igh rates, shocking trade, and a raid on its pubs.
Workman sez it's too good enough, Charlie; believes as it's better by far
To vote for Old Sol, a big Navy, an' maybe a olly good war.
He's sick of the bloomin' old forriners copping our trade and our tin,
And 'e's game for Protection and Peers—anythink, so Old England may win!
If the Rads wont his vote for the future, they've got somethink solid to do!
Village Councils and Vetoes won't work it, for all Billy 'Arcourt's boohoo!
'E don't wont less beer, but more beer-money, ah! and 'e don't care a blow
If 'e gits it from Rosebery and 'Arcourt, or Solsbury, Balfour and Joe!
But 'ang it, I'm preaching, old oyster, and giving them Rads the straight tip.
One thing, they won't take it, this lot won't; they ain't got no savvy, no grip.
Bin sloppin' all over the place like, a-fillin' their cup, and that rot,
And now, arter tackling the pewter, they find as they've all gone to pot.
O ain't it ske-rumptious, my pippin? I feel I could washup Brum Joe,
And I'm bound to admit, next to Bung, us true Tories must thank him this go.
He's crumped 'is old pals a fair knock-out. If Solsbury's saddle 'e'll carry,
And run straight in 'arness with Arthur, 'e'll do! Yours, tolbobbishly,
'Arry.
Not the Only Difference between Them.—Lord Rosebery the Derby Winner; Sir W. V. Harcourt the Derby Loser.
DISSOLVING VIEWS.
(A Reminiscence of the Recent Elections.)