Lord Roehampton

During a late election Lord
       Roehampton strained a vocal chord
       From shouting, very loud and high,
       To lots and lots of people why
       The Budget in his own opin–
      —Ion should not be allowed to win.
       He sought a Specialist, who said:
       ‘You have a swelling in the head:
       Your Larynx is a thought relaxed
       And you are greatly over-taxed.’
       ‘I am indeed! On every side!’
       The Earl (for such he was) replied
       In hoarse excitement.... ‘Oh! My Lord,
       You jeopardize your vocal chord!’
       Broke in the worthy Specialist.
       'Come! Here’s the treatment! I insist!
       To Bed! to Bed! And do not speak
       A single word till Wednesday week,
       When I will come and set you free
       (If you are cured) and take my fee.’
       On Wednesday week the Doctor hires
       A Brand-new Car with Brand-new Tyres
       And Brand-new Chauffeur all complete
       For visiting South Audley Street.
       But what is this? No Union Jack
       Floats on the Stables at the back!
       No Toffs escorting Ladies fair
       Perambulate the Gay Parterre.
       A 'Scutcheon hanging lozenge-wise
       And draped in crape appals his eyes
       Upon the mansion’s ample door,
       To which he wades through heaps of Straw,
       And which a Butler drowned in tears,
       On opening but confirms his fears:
       ‘Oh! Sir!—Prepare to hear the worst!...
       Last night my kind old master burst.
       And what is more, I doubt if he
       Has left enough to pay your fee.
       The Budget——’
       With a dreadful oath,
       The Specialist, denouncing both
       The Budget and the House of Lords,
       Buzzed angrily Bayswaterwards.
       And ever since, as I am told,
       Gets it beforehand; and in gold.

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