Mr. Jenkins, M. P., from St. Stephen’s came o’er
To address the electors he’d soothered before,
But he found in their feelings toward him a change,
Manifested in ways both alarming and strange;
He had scarcely extolled their warm hearts in the south
When a wet sod of turf hit him square in the mouth,
And the force of its logic ’twas plain he could see,
For “your argument’s striking,” said Jenkins, M. P.
Then a cat long deceased was propelled at his pate;
Says Jenkins, “Your animal spirits are great.”
A two-year-old egg on his cheek went to batter;
“I’d rather,” he murmured, “not speak of that matter.”
They set fire to the platform, he gasped in affright,
“The subject’s appearing in quite a new light.”
He appealed to his friends to protect him, nor flee,
“For unity’s strength,” argued Jenkins, M. P.
But in vain was their aid from that circle so fond;
He was torn and well soused in a neighboring pond,
And as it was freezing it needn’t be told
That his ardor was damped by a greeting so cold.
And the peelers came up in a charge like the wind—
Not knowing the member, they stormed him behind,
And when he felt bayonets where they shouldn’t be,
“I won’t dwell on these points,” muttered Jenkins, M. P.
He fled to his inn, but avoided the bar,
Where some patriots waited with feathers and tar.
“Sweet creatures,” quoth he, with a satisfied grin,
“Their charity sha’n’t cover much of my sin.”
All bruises and scratches he sought the first train;
“I leave you, electors,” he whispered, “with pain.
’Tis plain that our sentiments do not agree;
I’ll express them elsewhere,” shouted Jenkins, M. P.