Captain Jink’s Dream. — A Conversation on the Coming Elections Coming Elections Between — Bill Gladstone & Ben Dizzy
Written by John Embleton, Author of the “Political Litany on the Irish Church Question, &c.”
Your attention I claim, Captain Jinks is my name, and with your permission, I hold a commission, in Her Majesty’s famed horse marines.
I have lines here for your inspection, on the coming election, and I’ll try to amuse, that is if you choose, by relating a wonderful dream.
It was t’other night, I got rather tight, I had been to the Alhambra, to see the grand things there, and roll’d home at two in my glory.
And I dreamt a queer dream, though strange it may seem, that I heard a conversation, or a confabulation, between Gladstone and Dizzy, the Tory.
I had a dream the other night; and the same I’ll lay before ye,
A conversation on the coming election, between Gladstone and Dizzy, the Tory.
Said Gladstone, Dizzy my rum ’un, the time is a coming, though you think yourself clever, you will find so help my never, at the forthcoming general election,
That your goose will be cooked, and you must take your hook, for like a cow’s tail you will find, you will be all behind, when the people they make their selection.
Then said Dizzy it is plain, Gladstone, you want the reins, and between you and me, your Reform and cheap tea, you fancy will carry you straight, sir.
But I know what your wish is, to prig my loaves and fishes, but Gladstone my hearty, I’ll lick you and your party, and stick to my stall, so help me tater.
Ben, your No Popery cry, it is all my eye, and your cant and your crawling, shews you are afraid of falling, for of honesty you have not a spark, Ben.
For you and your chums dirty, got dreadful shirty, but that is not worst, sir, said I fell to the gutter, when my friends met like bricks in Hyde Park, Ben.
Says Dizzy, I know Bill, you think your Irish Church Bill, with the aid of the donovans, will make you A No. 1, but you will find in the end it’s no use man.
For it is a great shame man, that with Bradlaugh and Finlen, and the rest of your Pets, should make this cabal, to capsize church and constitution.
Said Gladstone, that is it, if the cap did not fit, Sally Gamp of the Standard, would not have stuck up her placards, unless you Tories had got some queer twitches,
But they have made a mistake, sir, it’s a mere waste of paper, and if they come up to the scratch, they will find the Liberals their match, and they may chance to have an earthquake in their breeches.
Says Dizzy, I know, that old Jemmy Squaretoe, to himself will you take man, for running down shovel hats and silk aprons, and I wonder you can sleep in your bed, Bill,
For in Hyde Park it was said, that a litany was read, and it said, and no flies, my nose was like double size, and my curly hair shook on my head, Bill.
Gladstone said by-the-bye, there has been a loud cry, which is nothing unkimmon, for it comes from the women, they declare they will rule if they like, Ben.
They say, at home in their houses, they can rule their spouses, and they seem rather puzzled, that their tongues should be muzzled, like D—— M—— muzzled our tykes, Ben.
Dizzy said, bless the ladies, they are well in their places, to wash and dress babbies, and lecture the daddies; and some in homes they are graceful.
They can rule in the kitchen, and cook puddings—if they can get them,—and to say they’re not clever, I’d not venture, no, never! when I think upon old Madam Rachel.
Gladstone said, my Cockawax, there is that cursed income tax upon trades and professions, I’d like to sing its dying speech and confession, for it robs the poor man of his bread, Ben.
Why not tax grunting pigs, the counsellor’s wigs, the little hedge-sparrows, the cat’s-meat man’s barrow, or the chignons they stick on their heads, Ben.
And Ben, it is said, you are politically dead, but have not pluck at present, to get buried decent, and leave the Liberals to weather the storm, Ben.
So I would advise you, and the Adullamites too, to make yourselves scarce then, at the coming election, for you are done brown as sure as you are born, Ben.
Dizzy said, Bill and I have tried, but you are not satisfied, but we will see who is the best one, at the General Election, and to do our best then we will endeavour.
Then I heard a great noise, with, We have lick’d them, my boys, and just then I awoke, and though not a soul spoke, my ears rung with
GLADSTONE FOR EVER!
Henry Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.—W.C.