The New Cure.

R. Smith, you’re very worried, And your face looks very sad, By the Gladstonites you’re flurried, Their behaviour is so bad; And your liver is affected, And you’re bilious as well, But you need not be dejected, You’ll be sound, sir, as a bell If you switchback, If you switchback— If you switchback, sir, forthwith. It’s a patented health-giver, It will act upon your liver, If you switchback, Mr. Smith.

R. D., I’m gay and jolly, And my fingers I can snap At the Opposition folly, And the Parnellites who yap. I can view the situation With a calm, contented smile, And, whate’er the aggravation, Keep my temper all the while; For I’ve switchbacked, For I’ve switchbacked— For I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.; And that patented health-giver Has, in acting on my liver, Made another man of me.

ENRY Hawkins, people mutter, That dyspeptic pain at times Is the cause of words you utter When a-sitting upon crimes; When your liver’s wrong, your fury Can no murderer withstand, And you sum up to the jury With the black cap in your hand. You should switchback, You should switchback; Please, Sir Henry, don’t say “Fudge!” For the switchback it will shake you, Stir your liver up, and make you Quite a nice agreeable judge.

R. D., no more dyspeptic, I am called a kindly man; Of a prisoner’s worth no sceptic, I defend him all I can. My delight and my endeavour Is the jury to restrain, And restore a culprit clever To his loving friends again. For I’ve switchbacked, For I’ve switchbacked— Yes, I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.; And that patented health-giver Has, in acting on my liver, Made another judge of me.