And it seemed to address him, “How long, friend HODGE,
  In a smock you will slave, in a pig-stye lodge? 
  The Town revolts, but the landlord crew
  Still rule the rustics.  What can you do?”
      Singing dumbledumdeary, &c.

  “Oh, I can reap, and I can sow;
  And I can plough, and I can mow;
  And, as Lord RIPON doth treuly say,
  I can yarn my eighteen-pence a day!”
      Singing dumbledumdeary, &c.

  “Oh, that,” cried the Voices, “will never do! 
  HODGE now must have freedom, and comfort too,
  And Village Councils, Allotments, and Larks! 
  Though the Landlords take fright for their Manors and Parks,”
      Singing dumbledumdeary, &c.

  “No more must he live like a pig in a stye,
  Or we (Tory Codlir, Rad Short) will know why. 
  And if you’ll consent just to vote for us now,
  We’ll put a new tune to your old ‘Speed the Plough!’”
      Singing dumbledumdeary, &c.

  Then HODGE, slightly puzzled, beheld (in his dream)
  A legion of faces that flowed with the stream. 
  “There’s two WILLIAMS, and JOEY, and JESSE!” he cried,
  “SOLLY, BALFY, and JOKIM talk, too, from the tide,—­”
      Singing dumbledumdeary, &c.

  “They’re making a vast sight o’ noise, and I fear,
  Whilst they all shout together, their meaning’s scarce clear. 
  They all drift one way, though, out yonder I’ll sit! 
  And wait till the shindying slackens a bit.” 
      Singing dumbledumdeary, &c.

  So HODGE, like old HORACE’s Rustic, still waits
  Till the waters flow by, or their turmoil abates;
  And then hopes to reach “Happy Home” o’er that stream. 
  Let us hope that he mayn’t find it only a dream! 
      Singing dumbledumdeary, dumbledumdeary,
      Dumble, dumble, dumbledumdee!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE TRIALS OF AN ANXIOUS “JUNIOR.”

PROMPTING A DEAF AND TESTY “CHIEF” IN OPEN COURT IS NOT HIS IDEA OF
PERFECT BLISS.]

* * * * *

“DICK” POWER.

When the House of Commons meets in February, it will find many vacant places.  Save, perhaps, on that sacred to the memory of OLD MORALITY, none will draw towards it such sorrowful glances as the bench below the Gangway, where, last Session, DICK POWER’s smiling face was found.  Everyone in the House knew “DICK,” and all liked him—­a modest-mannered, merry-hearted man, whom a strange destiny had not only dragged into political life, but, as Whip of the Parnellite Party, had made him the official representative of a body for the most part socially unknown, and disliked with a fervour happily not often imported into Parliamentary warfare.  DICK POWER, whilst never swerving by a hair’s breadth from loyalty to his colleagues and his leader, so bore himself that he was welcome in any Parliamentary