 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
527
THE WORST CLUB IN LONDON.
Once we boasted in pride, and believed to be true,
That our Parliament Club was the best,—
And the Home of the Commons, to give it its due,
Was a place which no cad could molest;
We believed that but gentlemen there held their own,
Who behaved still as gentlemen must,
And no law save the practice of honour was known,
With no stroke beyond courtesy's thrust;
We believed that the snob and the rowdy and rogue,
Though abroad they might purchase a seat—
And sedition, if elsewhere with traitors in vogue—
Would not find in one house a retreat.
That our Parliament Club was the best,—
And the Home of the Commons, to give it its due,
Was a place which no cad could molest;
We believed that but gentlemen there held their own,
Who behaved still as gentlemen must,
And no law save the practice of honour was known,
With no stroke beyond courtesy's thrust;
We believed that the snob and the rowdy and rogue,
Though abroad they might purchase a seat—
And sedition, if elsewhere with traitors in vogue—
Would not find in one house a retreat.
We rejoiced that our Senate was sacred, and pure
From the breath of the blackguards who blight—
There was one spot where truth reigned supreme and secure,
As our charter of national right.
We were certain the bully, wherever he dropt
The coarse threats of his cowardly mind—
If he darkened the pulpit—yet there would be stopt,
And would leave not his brandings behind
We announced to the world, how the Commons retained
The grand style that had robed them with power;
And the justice, which ran through our annals unstained,
Blossomed there in its loveliest flower.
From the breath of the blackguards who blight—
There was one spot where truth reigned supreme and secure,
As our charter of national right.
We were certain the bully, wherever he dropt
The coarse threats of his cowardly mind—
If he darkened the pulpit—yet there would be stopt,
And would leave not his brandings behind
We announced to the world, how the Commons retained
The grand style that had robed them with power;
And the justice, which ran through our annals unstained,
Blossomed there in its loveliest flower.
But where now is the glory, when foul is the change
Which has fallen as night on the scene,
With the antics and orgies to Englishmen strange,
In their dignity once so serene?
Have the sweepings of gaols, and of gutters been searched
To provide the most pestilent gang,
Who the ancient and awful and fair have besmirched,
With the reek of their ruffianly slang?
Have the back slums of Ireland been vomiting up,
The contents of their murderous maws,
Politicians who range between crime and the cup,
And acknowledge no manners or laws?
Which has fallen as night on the scene,
With the antics and orgies to Englishmen strange,
In their dignity once so serene?
Have the sweepings of gaols, and of gutters been searched
To provide the most pestilent gang,
Who the ancient and awful and fair have besmirched,
With the reek of their ruffianly slang?
Have the back slums of Ireland been vomiting up,
The contents of their murderous maws,
Politicians who range between crime and the cup,
And acknowledge no manners or laws?
For the floor of our Parliament House is defiled,
With the strut of stipendiary knaves;
And the customs of decency wither, reviled
By the lip that conspiracy raves;
And the precincts once solemn as holiest bounds,
Now have sunk to a scandalous school,
Where the volley of low malediction resounds,
And the scoff of the liar or fool.
And though London has many a shelter for vice,
Whence the organised evil may burst,
And the gambler no lack of his hells to entice,
Yet the Club called the Senate is worst.
With the strut of stipendiary knaves;
And the customs of decency wither, reviled
By the lip that conspiracy raves;
And the precincts once solemn as holiest bounds,
Now have sunk to a scandalous school,
Where the volley of low malediction resounds,
And the scoff of the liar or fool.
And though London has many a shelter for vice,
Whence the organised evil may burst,
And the gambler no lack of his hells to entice,
Yet the Club called the Senate is worst.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |