["He was in the unfortunate position of having probably to go to Parliament at the next election, but he would rather go to prison half-a-dozen times than to Parliament once, because Labour candidates in the past had either been thrown out or tied to the coat-tail of party politics.  He wished it to be distinctly understood that there must be nothing of this, but their candidates must go forth as labour candidates, and labour candidates only.  He must know on what terms he must do the dirty work of going to Parliament.”—­Mr. John Burns at the Trade Union Congress at Liverpool.]

  Good gracious, how awful!  The Trades were assembled,
    And they all yelled together, and tempers got brittle;
  And when Burns rose and thundered, all Liverpool trembled
    (Though Burns is perhaps Boanerges spelt little).

  And he laid all about him, like mules who can kick hard,
    But kick without aim for the pleasure of kicking;
  And he trod upon Fenwick, and trampled on Pickard,
    And his friends shouted, “Death to political tricking!”

  And on one side we heard all the Socialist gang wage
    A war against Broadhurst, who carried a hod once. 
  And Broadhurst retorted on Burns and his language,
    That Burns might go back, since he languished in “quod” once.

  And Burns ranted back; as the French say, the mustard
    Had gone to his nose, which was rather unfortunate. 
  “St. Stephen’s requires me, and I,” so he blustered,
    “Must needs be a Member, since friends are importunate.

  “But I’d rather,” he added, “go six times to Holloway”
    (Will not language like this of J.B. make The Star lament?)
  “Than go (which is dirt) to St. Stephen’s, or loll away
    My time and the People’s as Member of Parliament.”

  Now, Burns, be advised; that is bunkum—­you know it. 
    You “must be a Member”?  Pooh, pooh, John, I doubt you. 
  Short answers are best, so Punch answers you, “Stow it. 
    Stay away, and we’ll try for salvation without you.”

  There’s no “must” in the matter.  The goose, John, who flaps his
    Vain wings, though at first very fearful he may be,
  If you face him at once, why, he promptly collapses;
    He may hiss as he runs, he won’t frighten a baby.

  Be warned in good time—­why there isn’t a man, Sir,
    Or at most one or two, whom the universe misses. 
  You strut for a moment, and then, like poor Anser,
    You vanish, uncared-for, with splutter and hisses.

  If a man cares to toil, if, like Broadhurst or Burt, he
    Puts his neck to the yoke for the good of his fellows,
  He will find work to do (though you scorn it as dirty),
    Without all this labour of trumpet and bellows.

  Surely butter must cloy, though your friends do the churning—­
    You are not the whole world, though you did win a tanner;
  And Punch thinks it well, when your head has done turning,
    You should turn a new leaf, and just soften your manner.