LECTIONS.

BY THE BEADLE OF SOMERSET HOUSE.

Well, lawks-a-day! things seem going on uncommon queer,
For they say that the Tories are bowling out the Whigs almost everywhere;
And the blazing red of my beadle's coat is turning to pink through fear,
Lest I should find myself and staff out of Office some time about the
end of the year.
I've done nothing so long but stand under the magnificent portico
Of Somerset House, that I don't know what I should do if I was for to go!
What the electors are at, I can't make out, upon my soul,
For it's a law of natur' that the _whig_ should be atop of
the _poll_.
I've had a snug berth of it here for some time, and don't want to cut
the connexion;
But they _do_ say the Whigs must go out, because they've NO OTHER
ELECTION;
What they mean by that, I _don't_ know, for ain't they been
electioneering--
That is, they've been canvassing, and spouting, and pledging, and
ginning, and beering.
Hasn't Crawford and Pattison, Lyall, Masterman, Wood, and Lord John
Russell,
For ever so long been keeping the Great Metropolis in one alarming
_bussel_?
Ain't the two _first_ retired into private life--(that's the genteel
for being rejected)?
And what's more, the _last_ four, strange to say, have all been elected.
Then Finsbury Tom and Mr. Wakley, as wears his hair all over his
coat collar,
Hav'n't they frightened Mr. Tooke, who once said he could beat them
_Hollar_?
Then at Lambeth, ain't Mr. Baldwin and Mr. Cabbell been both on 'em
bottled
By Mr. D'Eyncourt and Mr. Hawes, who makes soap yellow and mottled!
And hasn't Sir Benjamin Hall, and the gallant Commodore Napier,
Made such a cabal with Cabbell and Hamilton as would make any chap queer?
Whilst Sankey, who was backed by a _Cleave_-r for Marrowbone
looks cranky,
Acos the electors, like lisping babbies, cried out "_No Sankee?_"
Then South'ark has sent Alderman Humphrey and Mr. B. Wood,
Who has promised, that if ever a member of parliament did his duty--he
would!
Then for the Tower Hamlets, Robinson, Hutchinson, and Thompson, find
that they're in the wrong box,
For the electors, though turned to Clay, still gallantly followed
the Fox;
Whilst Westminster's chosen Rous--not Rouse of the Eagle--tho' I once
seed a
Pictu