AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

New Zealand Times, Volume LVIX, Issue 2875, 18 July 1896, Page 2 (Supplement)

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

POLITICAL LAYS. A Rime of Plotters Three. (Writ leu for the Yeio Zealand Mail ) It was tho whilom Democrat Of Wellingtonia’s shore. He called a council of his clan— The doctor and the hardware man. And half a dozen more. And thus unto the clan he spake— Unto the clan spake he: Seddon, McKenzie, Ward and Co. To Opposition shades must go — And that right speedilee. Within these all-restricted bounds We few have tarried long. Then let us speed tho joyful hour That hails us back to place and power, And makes our mana strong. Up spake the little doctor bold (A perky youth was he); How may we circumvent this band That six years past has ruled the land ? How work this jugglereeP Myself am in a direful case; , Young Wilford waits for me. Lol factions rend my wide domain, Each day their ranks fresh numbers gain j My outlook’s sad and dree. Whilom in wine I set my store (The new man then was young) A whil? I held tho vinous way; But “ wines wax weak when pubs, decay * As someone else has sung. So, when my wine spec, fizzled out. And Bacchus’ folk grew wild, I “ saw tho error of my ways,” They crowned mo with teetotal bays, And Isitt on me smiled. Yet, still, my heart misgives me much ; My courage waxes low. It makes my very blood run cold. The tale that last election told, Twas such a “ touch-and-go.” If that I might some daring deed In our behalf perform, To set King Demos deep in gloom, I might my fading light relume And shield me from the storm. Then show to me, my brothers, pray (Oh ! bo to me a guide), How that I might postpone the day That present waits, not far away. When I shall bo denied. Then up and spake the hardware man— And these tho words he spake: Beneath the cegia of King Bung To Parliament last time I sprung; But now with fear I quake. For, lo ! another pushes on To load the beery van. " Another Richmond’s in the field j” The Bungraen to his pleading yield— The bold bad Fisherman. ’Tis true that last election-tide Ho was a Temp’rance man ; : But things in George are very small That might a gaping world appall In any other man.

So, too, must I some daring deed In our behalf perform. To set King Demos deep in gloom. And so my fading star relume. And bravo Our George’s ” storm. And thus spake on the hardware man (A Scottish chiel withal) : A Minister—way down the south, Is ’whelmed in a financial drouth We’ll hound him to his fall. He worries o’er the country’s cash. Meanwhile his companies. Bun by some daring, errant wights, Are languishing in sorry plights— Then up! and have at these! Then loudly laughed Sir Bobby Fat, Ho ! ho ! loud laughed the chief. That is the card that we must play To speed along the wished-for day Of Governmental grief. For if we “ wing ” the Treasurer, It follows, in his fall. His colleagues all must share the blame That then shall fasten on his name. And share his lot withal. # * * # It was a most eventful day— A day of direful mood j And in the House of Reps., at bay. All eager for the coming fray, Lo \ the ex-Treasurer stood. It was a most unheard of thing— Well might Bob’s people cry — For, when they thought they’d got him down. And spoiled of his financial crown, “ The beggar wouldn’t lie! ! ! ” But showed a largo amount of fight, And made the plotters squirm. . (Quoth Bob the Fat to Alf. the Small: I would wo could the past recall — He shows a front too firm.) He hurled his challenges around, And dared them make reply. The doctor, and the egg-bald chief. In small side-issues sought relief, Where they could not deny. And through' the country, sounding far. The people loudly cried: Colonials are colonials still, And ever took and ever will. The persecuted side. ■# * * * It was the whilom Democrat Of Welliugtonia’s shore. He called a council of his clan—• The doctor and the hardware man, And half a dozen more. And iu this wise to them he spake— Unto them thus spake he: Wo wore mistaken in our man— And hence it comes our deep* laid plan Has worked disastrousleo. * # * • But now my Helicon runs low— The tale is told, methinks. Yet when fresh plots shall be decreed. Mayhap tbere’U be another screed From yours, 6elsuazzab Binks. Wellington, June, 189fi.