To the pleasing of the belles

Keeping time, time, time
Oh ye swells, swells, swells,

In a way that's most sublime
To the throbbing of the belles,

Of the belles, belles, belles,
To the bobbing of the swells,

Of the swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells, swells,

To the measure and the pleasure of the swells.
T. F. DILLon Croker.

The Royal Dramatic College Annual. July, 1868.

THE POLLS.

HEAR the statements of the Polls,
Of the Polls!

What a world of partisans their publishing consoles !
How they've waited, waited, waited

In the morning or the night

Till the net result is stated,

When they scamper off elated

With delirious delight;

And they hip, hip, hip,

Hip-hurrah, and dance and skip

With the supererogation of a lot of frisky foals
From the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls,
Polls, Polls, Polls,

From their triumphs of the Ballot and the Polls.

Hear the totals of the Polls,
Of the Polls!

What a large official staff their adding-up enrols!
After breakfast or at night

How they count with all their might,
Sorting papers, checking notes;

And, ere 'tis done,

How the scrutinizer gloats

As he pounces down on spoilt or unmark'd votes

One by one!

Then they end their calculation,

And at last is made the long'd-for declaration :

How it rolls,

How it trolls

O'er the human heads in shoals, Which-Whig, Radical, and ToryPress round to hear the story

Of the Polls,

What a discord most distracting in their noisy clappers dwells.

Ere has come the morning light,

I awaken in a fright

At their dong-dong-dong,

For 'tis matins all days long,
Till they ring for evensong.
Or 'tis Little Bethel's Bells

That from opposition steeple
Call the other kind of people.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells,
What a horror in me dwells

While the ear distinctly tells,
As the noise now ebbs, now swells,

That there's madness in the clangour of the bells,
Bells, bells, bells,

In the never-ending Babel of the bells!

SEE the postman with the bills-
New Year's bills!

What a world of tribulation
Now their sending out fulfils!
How they rankle, rankle, rankle

In the startled dreams of night,
As the creditors' procession,
Of the chamber takes possession,
With a brutalised delight;

Calling "Time!" "Time!" "Time!"
In a sort of prize-ring rhyme.

To the dark and deep demnition

That so gradually kills,

From the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills,

From the tailors' and the hatters' little bills

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and skeery,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of Midlothian lore ;

While I studied deeply napping-suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping with something wooden on the door.

"'Tis some Radical," I murmured, with a cudgel at the door

Waiting for me-nothing more."

Presently my views grew broader; "it must be that great marauder,

The big and hurly-burly Harcourt, sturdy limb of legal lore.

Yes, 'tis he of frame Titanic, massive jowl, and sneer Satanic,

That puts his foes to flight and panic when he occupies the floor.

Or perhaps it's Gladstone coming meekly pardon to implore

"This it is, and nothing more."

Back I dashed the door, half crazy-had my wits turned mad or hazy

For in there stepped a pompous raven, full of paunch and sleek galore,

And his look was grave and crafty, neither smiled, nor looked, nor laughed he,

As he slowly strutted past me, perching o'er my chamber door

Perched upon a bust of Schnadhorst-somewhat brokeno'er the door,

Croaking "Caucus," nothing more.