When members have taken their usual places,
And, insult to Bradlaugh, the prayers have been read,
The exiles of Erin, with pitiless faces,
Fling queries by scores at the Sassenach’s head;
And as, one by one, question follows on question,
Lost Balfour, still farther and farther at sea,
In agony mental that spoils his digestion,
But murmurs, “I wish I were out in Fiji!”
“Can you tell me,” asks one, in a deep tone of thunder,
“How much buckshot is fatal, administered where?”
“Don’t you know,” cries another, in accents of wonder,
“The average size of potatoes in Clare?”
A third seeks a legal opinion, without
Even gratitude proffered by way of a fee,
And a youth wants to know has the premier the gout,
While Balfour would fain be exiled to Fiji.
Affairs of the person, affairs of the State,
Affairs of the church, and affairs of the bar,
What should be a sub-constable’s average weight?
Does he ever indulge in the national car?
Is he properly versed in diseases of cattle?
Is it whiskey he swigs when he’s out on a spree?
And he moans as the queries about his ears rattle,
“Great God, how I wish I were out in Fiji!”