Pheugh! His poll was taken early (it was _not_ on Saturday),
And he lost by seven hundred, and is out of the fierce fray;
And whether he rejoices, or internally repines,
May be clear to the wiseacres who can "read between the lines."

It was hot, too, while it lasted, and of epidemic ills
The Election Fever "takes the cake." 'Tis true it seldom kills,
But for far and wide contagion, and for agony acute,
Its supremacy is certain as its sway is absolute.

And he had it very badly. He looks convalescent now,
But the frenzy of the meeting brought the crimson to his brow,
And his thorax is still husky with his eloquent appeal
To the mustered working-men at the hour of mid-day meal.

How they swarmed about his waggon! How their oily fustian filled
The summer air with fragrance that his fine olfactories thrilled!
How very loud their shouts were, and how very rude their jeers,
And how very strong the _bouquet_ of clay pipes and bitter beers!

His arguments amused them, and his peroration fine,
About "standing for old England stoutly all along the line,"
Would have surely proved impressive, but for some sardonic ass,
Who produced an anti-climax with the shouted comment "Gas!"

Then the mob broke up in laughter, to return to pipe and can,
And--plumped for his opponent pretty nearly to a man;
For of all ungrateful cynics, and of all impervious clowns,
Commend me (says our wanderer), to the workmen of our towns.