A Ministerial Wail

[“The most trenchant critics of the Government since its formation have been Mr. PRINGLE and Mr. HOGGE.”—British Weekly.]

The gipsy camping in a dingle I reckon as a lucky dog; He doesn’t hear the voice of PRINGLE, He doesn’t hear the snorts of HOGGE.

The moujik crouching in his ingle Somewhere near Tomsk or Taganrog I envy; he is far from PRINGLE And equally remote from HOGGE.

I find them deadly when they’re single, But deadlier in the duologue, When the insufferable PRINGLE Backs the intolerable HOGGE.

I’d rather walk for miles on shingle Or flounder knee-deep in a bog Than listen to a speech from PRINGLE Or hearken to the howls of HOGGE.

Their tyrannous exactions mingle The vices of Kings Stork and Log; One day I give the palm to PRINGLE, The next I offer it to HOGGE.

The style of Mr. Alfred Jingle Was jumpy, but he did not clog His sense with woolly words, like PRINGLE, With priggish petulance, like HOGGE.

I’d love to see the Bing Boys bingle, To go to music-halls incog., Instead of being posed by PRINGLE And heckled by the hateful HOGGE.

My appetite is gone; I “pingle” (As Norfolk puts it) with my prog; My meals are marred by thoughts of PRINGLE, My sleep is massacred by HOGGE.

O patriots, with your nerves a-tingle, With all your righteous souls agog, Will none of you demolish PRINGLE And utterly extinguish HOGGE?