Why e'en the G.O.M. his grey head hung,
And wished he were at Hawarden.
Like vine unpruned, SEXTON's exuberant speech
Sprawled o'er the question with the which he'd grapple;
PICTON prosed on,--the style in which men preach
In a dissenting chapel.
Prince ARTHUR twined one lank leg t'other round,
Drooping a long chin like BURNE-JONES's ladies;
And HARCOURT, sickening of the strident sound,
Wished CONYBEARE in Hades.
For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of imminent doom the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The House is Haunted!
II.
Oh, very gloomy is this House of Woe,
Where yawns are numerous while Big Ben is knelling.
It is not on the Session dull and slow,
These pale M.P.'s are dwelling.
Oh, very, very dreary is the gloom,
But M.P.'s heed not HEALY's elocution;
Each one is wondering what may be his doom
After the Dissolution!
That House of Woe must soon be closed to all
Who linger now therein with tedium mortal,
And of those lingerers a proportion small
Again may pass its portal.
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