The Coaching Meet, the Opera's latest star,
The Row, the River, the Vitellian feed,—
All the munitions of the Social War,
Seem fruitless now, when peal on peal afar
And near, the beat of the great Party Drum
Rouses M.P.'s to platform joust and jar,
While tongue-tied dullards scarcely dare be dumb,
When the Whips whisper "Go!" Wirepullers clamour "Come!"
"Too bad! Too bad!" The Influenza chilled,
Court-mourning marred, the Season's earliest prime,