Volume 103 — CABBIN' IT COUNCIL.

O Lud! O Lud! O Lud! (As Tom Hood cried, apostrophising London), November rules, a reign of rain, fog, mud, And Summer's sun is fled, and Autumn's fun done. Far are the fields M.P.'s have tramped and gunned on! Malwood is far, and far is fair Dalmeny, And Harwarden, Like a garden (To Caucus-mustered crowds) glowing and greeny In soft September, Is distant now, and dull; for 'tis November, And we are in a Fog! Cabbin' it, Council? Ah! each absent Member May be esteemed a vastly lucky dog! The streets are up—of course! No Irish bog Is darker, deeper, dirtier than that hole Sp-nc-r is staring into. On my soul, M-rl-y, we want that light you're seeking, swarming Up that lank lamp-post in a style alarming! Take care, my John, you don't come down a whopper! And you, young R-s-b-ry, if you come a cropper Over that dark, dim pile, where shall we be? Pest! I can hardly see An inch before my nose—not to say clearly. Hold him up, H-rc-rt! He was down then, nearly, Our crook-knee'd "crock." Seems going very queerly, Although so short a time out of the stable. Quiet him, William, quiet him!—if you're able. This is no spot for him to fall. I dread The need—just here—of "sitting on his head." Cutting the traces Will leave us dead-lock'd, here of all bad places! Oh, do keep quiet, K-mb-rl-y! You're twitching My cape again! Mind, Asq-th! You'll be pitching Over that barrier, if you are not steady. Fancy us getting in this fix—already! Cabbin' it in a fog is awkward work, Specially for the driver, who can't shirk, When once his "fare" is taken. I feel shaken. 'd rather drive the chariot of the Sun (That's dangerous, but rare fun!) Like Phaëthon, Than play the Jehu in a fog so woful To this confounded "Shoful"!