A word out of season
Of vapid unreason
May seem mere political twaddle at best;
But this thing needs abatement
Sing me to sleep when I go West;
But sing you, soft and low,
No song from the olden masters'
Or I shall not want to go:
Sometimes I risk a faltering step
To meet these -steins, both Ein- and Ep-:
But hesitate and halt at last,
Finding the works of each too vast
Here, in soft darkness where the whole night thro',
Dreamless, my quiet garden slumbered well.
Night's soothing fingers all adrip with dew
Crept in and out, weaving a mystic spell
The winds that blow about the world
(Said Old George Jones)
See here all hope to ruin hurled,
See there triumphant flags unfurled,
Now, a cove the name of Blabb, a politician,
He's a haughty sort o' high pan-jan-dee-ram;
An' he holds a very dignified position
Dargo is a dark-haired lass
Prone to independent ways;
Few men know her, fewer pass,
Where her pleasant river plays
I am shocked beyond words!
(Said the statesman. 'Tis crime
That the clamoring herds
Should seek war at this time.
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Still with an iron hand
Rules house and home. Like a peevish gnome
He barks each curt command.