I.

There is a slumber here that softlier falls
Than forty-winks where dull, dull Bills they pass;
Oft have I drowsed within those dreary walls,
Where brays the pertinacious party ass.
Here sleep more gently on the spirit lies
Than where the SPEAKER tells the Noes and Ayes.
The wave-wash brings sweet sleep down, from the summer skies,
Here laps the azure deep,
And through the weed the small crabs creep,
And safe from prigs who plague and nymphs who peep,
Sagacious _Punch_ reclines and woos benignant sleep.

II.

Why are we weighed upon with Politics,
And, utterly fatigued by "bores" and "sticks,"
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are "_such_ clever things!"
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one "Question" to another thrown?
Gulls, even, fold their wings,
And cease their wanderings,
Watching our brows which slumber's holy balm
Bathes gently, whilst the inner spirit sings
"There is no joy but calm!"
Why should _Punch_ only toil, the top and crown of things?