A residence for Tory, Whig or Rad,
  Where yet none had abiding habitation;
  A House—­but darkened by the influence sad
    Of slow disintegration. 
  O’er all there hung a shadow and a fear,
  A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
  And said as plain as whisper in the ear,
    The place is Haunted!

  There speech grew wild and rankly as the weed,
  GRAHAM with TANNER waged competitive trials,
  And vulgar bores of Billingsgatish breed
    Voided spleen’s venomed vials. 
  But gay or gloomy, fluent or infirm,
  None heeded their dull drawls, of hours’ duration. 
  The House was clearly in for a long term
    Of desolate stagnation. 
  The SPEAKER yawned upon his Chair, he found
  It tiring work, a placid brow to furrow,
  To sit out speeches arguing round and round,
    From County or from Borough. 
  The Members, like wild rabbits, scudded through
  The lobbies, took their seats, lounged, yawned—­and vanished. 
  The Whips like spectres wandered; well they knew
    All discipline was banished. 
  The blatant bore,—­the faddist, and the fool,
  Were listened to with an indifferent tameness. 
  The windbag of the new Hibernian school
    Railed on with shocking sameness. 
  The moping M.P. motionless and stiff,
  Who, on his bench sat silently and stilly,
  Gawped with round eyes and pendulous lips, as if
    He had been stricken silly: 
  No cheery sound, except when far away
  Came echoes of ’cute LABBY’s cynic laughter,
  Which, sick of Dumbleborough’s chattering jay,
    His listeners rambled after. 
  But Echo’s self tires of a GRAHAM’s tongue,
  Rot blent with rudeness gentlest nymph can’t pardon. 
  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!