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Journalists, writers, observers and politicians have had a field day making up poetry (and music) about Parliament and parliamentarians. Read and listen to a selection of poems about Parliament.
There were tense relations between Parliament and the press gallery journalists when this was published in the New Zealand Observer and Free Lance, 1 October 1898.
Listen to this poem being read by Simon Nathan. (185k, mp3)
You may slang a fellow-member, and your words may be as free
As the phrases of endearment used by mariners at sea;
Indulge in lurid language of a kind that would amaze
An angry bullock-puncher in the old Colonial days ...
You may wreck a reputation from the cover of a hedge,
Or – as politicians term it – Parliamentary privilege ...
These things are merely trifles, only fit to raise a laugh,
But woe betide the journalist who prints a paragraph
Reflecting on the evidence before some committee,
Or some M.H.R. with character of spotless purity
At once Jove's thunderbolts are launched at his devoted head;
He will wish that scrap of evidence had wisely been unsaid;
For the direful Standing Orders, and the precedents from May, Remind him of the terrors of the awful Judgement Day;
Of bottomless perdition he stands trembling on the edge,
For this – ye gods! – this paragraph's a BREACH OF PRIVILEGE.
The press gallery was very much a male institution until the 1970s. These verses (of song) from the 1890s suggest the camaraderie amongst the men.
Listen to this poem being read by Megan Hutching. (124k, mp3)
The midnight chimes have rung, the House is getting bare,
But still the 'Gallery Boys' toil on, and still the 'boys' are there.
Though their eyes may be weary and their fingers be sore,
Their pens they must drive till of talk there's no more.And then for home and bed through dark deserted street,
Midst sticky mud and slush and driving rain and sleet,
Sometimes no bed until it's well nigh dawn,
For the 'stonewallers' will keep them on well into early morn.Sing Ho! for the Gallery Boys,
The 'Boys' who are youths, the 'Boys' who are men,
who sit up aloft where oratory cloys,
And 'graft' night and day with tireless pen,
Sing Ho! for the Gallery Boys!
There was a distinct pecking order among the women who sat in the ladies' gallery in the nineteenth century.
Listen to this poem being read by Paul Riley. (120k, mp3)
Up in the ladies gallery
'Tis curious quite to see
The difference shown by ladies
To ladies of different degree,
If you want a lesson in manners
And have half-an-hour to spare,
Go up to the ladies gallery,
There are patterns of all sorts there.They sit in a row, pretty creatures,
From la dame to the raw girl down,
From the plain looped-up black lustre,
to the sable trimmed velvet gown,
When you enter they eye you coldly,
With a fixed supercilious stare,
You will scarcely believe it, but really
The best of manners grow there.
Hansard staff poked fun at politicians and the reporting life in the 1950s.
(sung to the tune of 'This Ole House', selected verse and chorus)
This reporter's gettin shaky,
This reporter's gettin worn,
This reporter's bust his brain-box,
This reporter's tired of corn.
Oh, his hand is a'gettin cramped,
But he feels no fear of pain,
'Cause he sees a recess peepin thru
This next week's window pane.Aint a'gonna note this House no longer,
Aint a'gonna note this House no more,
Aint got time to fix the fumblers,
Aint got time to fix the bores,
Aint got time to boil the mumblers,
Nor to mend and pung-chu-ate,
Aint gonna note this House no longer,
We're a 'gettin ready to CELEBRATE.
This little ditty, probably composed around the time of the 1911 election, shows public scepticism of politicians is nothing new.
Listen to this poem being read by Nonnita Rees. (160k, mp3)
To play the game of politics, a member to become,
Learn all the little bag of tricks, and this is how it's done:
First toady to the Labour crowd, and promise all they ask;
Tell all the women you are proud to under take the task
Of driving all the liquor out, to make the country pure,
No matter how you turn about whence once your seat is sure.
This simple plan will never fail, Then always be prepared
To slide down from your seat upon a rail, And Join the winning side.
Continuation
Sit on a rail and fell quite sure, and don't have any fear,
Just fool the people and secure three hundred pounds a year.
There were poems about particular individuals, like H.A. Ingles, who as government whip in 1872 miscounted the number of votes for the government in a division. It was written by 'Silver Pen', the pen name of Mrs Corlett who published Parliamentary Skits and Sketches in the 1870s.
Listen to this poem being read by Nonnita Rees. (104k, mp3)
Most noble whip, you've done your duty well,
And like a gentleman, as all can tell;
The opposition ladies, all will bless,
Henceforth and for ever, Mr. Whip Ingles.How well you've shepherded your wandring flock,
and sav'd the votes of those who, on a rock
Of tipsy folly, had almost been lost,
Which would your mighty schemes have tempest toss'd.
Wood in the first Parliament Buildings in Wellington soon rotted, and at one point, a member of the Legislative Council drew attention to the state of things by waving some rotten and honeycombed wood in the chamber. This verse was written by 'Silver Pen', the pen name of Mrs Corlett who published Parliamentary Skits and Sketches in the 1870s.
Listen to this poem being read by Rob Greenfield. (164k, mp3)
They say, and it is quite believed by everyone in town,
The Lords are shaking in their shoes,
The House is tumbling down!A Farmer, with a frighten'd face, amid the council stood,
And from his pocket forth he drew a piece of rotten wood,
'My Lords and gentlemen', he said, 'I'll bet you half-a-crown,
Before the session's well begun,
The House will tumble down!''Behold I have within my hand a small piece of the roof,
'Tis like a bit of honeycomb, and far from waterproof;
Soft are our heads, as well you know, soft as the Speaker's gown
And what think ye will be our fates,
An the House tumble down!'
MPs wrote poetry, too. Paddy Blanchfield, who was MP for Westland in the 1960s and 1970s, was known as the 'bard of the Coast'. He composed a special poem to farewell the House when he retired in 1978.
Listen to this poem being read by Simon Nathan. (157k, mp3)
(selected verses)
We'll bow to Mr Speaker and sadly turn the page;
I shan't forget these members, as south my footsteps roam,
For the pigeon's on the Miro and now I'm going home.I'll miss my old opponents on benches 'cross the floor,
I'll miss those members' luncheons at Bellamy's next door;
But when I leave the Chamber and walk away alone,
I'll leave no hate or rancour, when Westland calls me home.Farewell to all-night sessions and clang of division bell,
When nerves are frayed and tempers displayed,
Sure it's just like living in hell;
Yet I'll miss all my fiery colleagues who fight like gladiators of Rome;
'Cos the tree ferns shade and the peaceful glade
Whisper, 'Paddy, it's time to come home'.