Ye actors, play a tune upon the trumpet,
Batter forcibly the parchment of a drum;
Get a table and incontinently thump it;
For the moment of your victory has come.
The reward of merit reaches the deserving;
There is joy in ev’ry corner of the land
That the doyen of the mummers, Henry Irving,
Is about to sit as Member for the Strand.
Ev’ry fashion of improvement he will dish up;
All varieties of hobbies he will run;
He will move that Edward Terry shall be bishop,
And retiring Mary Anderson a nun;
He will tell the House that all the world a stage is,
Its inhabitants a histrionic band;
And he’ll move for raising histrionic wages,
If you’ll vote for him as Member for the Strand.
He will talk about the “mission of the drama,”
And expound it with an unction, you may bet!
He will posture, self-important as the Llama,
Who is worshipped in the uplands of Thibet.
With the truculent McDougall he will grapple;
He will drive him to some very distant land;
Or confine him in his own dissenting chapel,
When he sits, at last, as Member for the Strand.

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