Mrs. J. (who is not of this type).  “YES, DEAR—­AND THE WORST HUSBANDS!”]

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH’S ANTI-LABOUR CONGRESS.

MR. PUNCH (IN A MARINE LOTOS-LAND) SINGS HIS SEA-SIDE VERSION OF THE LAUREATE’S LOVELY “CHORIC SONG."

I.

  There is a slumber here that softlier falls
  Than forty-winks where dull, dull Bills they pass;
  Oft have I drowsed within those dreary walls,
  Where brays the pertinacious party ass. 
  Here sleep more gently on the spirit lies
  Than where the SPEAKER tells the Noes and Ayes. 
  The wave-wash brings sweet sleep down, from the summer skies,
  Here laps the azure deep,
  And through the weed the small crabs creep,
  And safe from prigs who plague and nymphs who peep,
  Sagacious Punch reclines and woos benignant sleep.

II.

  Why are we weighed upon with Politics,
  And, utterly fatigued by “bores” and “sticks,”
  While all things else have rest from weariness? 
  All things have rest:  why should we toil alone,
  We only toil, who are “such clever things!”
  And make perpetual moan,
  Still from one “Question” to another thrown? 
  Gulls, even, fold their wings,
  And cease their wanderings,
  Watching our brows which slumber’s holy balm
  Bathes gently, whilst the inner spirit sings
  “There is no joy but calm!”
  Why should Punch only toil, the top and crown of things?

III.

  How sweet it were, dodging the urban stream,
  With half-shut eyes ever to seem
  Falling asleep in a half dream! 
  To dream and dream that yonder glittering light
  No more shall top the tall Clock Tower’s height;
  To hear no more the party speech;
  Eating the Lotos day by day,
  To watch the crisping ripples on the beach;
  (No, no, not HICKS!  Thank heaven, he’s far away!)
  To lend one’s mind and fancy wholly
  Unto the influence of the calmly jolly;
  Forgetful, whilst the salt breeze round one rustles;
  Of all the clamorous Congresses of Brussels,
  Of all the spouting M.P.’s party tussles,
  Of all the noisy votaries of CARL MARX;
  Of all save slumber and Unmitigated Larks!

IV.

  Dear are the memories of our wedded lives,
  Dear also are the outfits of our wives,
  And their huge trunks:  but this is a sweet change! 
  For surely now our household hearths are cold,
  Charwomen prowl thereby:  our halls look strange,
  Our suites are swathed like ghosts.  Here all is joy,
  And, by the stirless silence rendered bold,
  The very gulls stand round with furled wings. 
  What do you think of it, TOBY,