world?
We'd make a living, I suppose,
A washin' of each other's clo's!
Nex' come the cinematograph,
An' Joe, I needn't say, was there;
A picture of 'is upper 'alf,
A-settin' smilin' in a chair.
(There's no photographer in town
Would dare to 'take 'im lying down!')
Then a play-actress come along,
A saucy bunnet on 'er 'ead;
She didn't sing no fiscal song,
She spoke a fiscal pome instead.
'These is,' she 'astened to explain,
'The words o' Joseph Chamberlain!'
I 'eard that Yankee lady's rhyme,
An' then I took my coat an' 'at;
I've read some drivel in my time,
But nothink quite so bad as that.
(She was a Himport, I suppose,
Dumped down by foes o' poor ole Joe's!)
I took the kids to Drury Lane,
An' 'eard a lion comic sing
A song as told us once again
To keep 'Protecting' hev'rything.
Thinks I, 'ullo! but if that's so,
Can't we protect ourselves from Joe?
I ain't bad-tempered, 'Eaven knows;
A peaceful life is wot I'd choose;
If people likes this scheme o' Joe's,
They're more than welcome to their views;
They loves dear food, I've not a doubt,
An' any'ow that's their look-out.
But when I seeks the gall'ry door
At one of them there public shows,
I doesn't pay a bob or more
To 'ear about this plan o' Joe's;
I simply wants to get away
From controversies of the day.
We 'as enough o' argument
At 'ome, on 'bus-top, tube, or train;
An' most on us 'll be content
If 'entertainments' entertain;
But Joe's as bad as the perlice,
'E won't give no one any peace.
An' seems to me, as plain as day,
It's actors' business to amuse;
If they can't no'ow keep away
From giving us their fiscal views,
Why should the public be denied
A chance to 'ear the other side?
I 'opes it won't be very long
Afore George Robey lets us 'ear
A really fust-class fiscal song
Wrote by the Dook o' Devonsheer;
While on the biograph we sees
Them comic cuts o' F.C.G.'s.
If Ruddy Kipling would but write
A Free Trade ballad, or a glee,
Which Arthur Roberts could recite,
Or Dunville sing with Mr. Tree,
I'd pay my money at the door,
Nor wouldn't ask for nothin' more.
But while the music-'alls descend
To nothing but Protection 'turns,'
There's other better ways to spend
The little money that I earns.
I only asks to see fair-play,
An', failin' that, I'll stop away.
'STATISTICS'
I likes my glass of 'arf-an'-'arf,
Nor needn't make no bones about it;
But still I ain't the bloke to chaff
Them fellers as can do without it;
I pities 'em, but I respex
Toteetallers o' heither sex.
I used to be the same myself,
Would never touch a thing but water,
Nor 'ave no bottles on my shelf
Containin' wot they didn't oughter.
(O' water now I 'ates the sight,
Except to wash in, Sunday night).
An' wot cured me o' temperance
Was neither tracts nor indigestion,
But simply that I read, by chance,
Some dry statistics on the question,
Which proved to me, beyond a doubt,
That lamps as wasn't oiled went out!
In them dark moments o' the war—
Of Nineteen 'Undred now I'm writing—
My country raised a mounted corps,
As seed a deal o' gallant fighting;
An' nigh a third of all that lot
Was touched by fever, shell or shot.
Of the toteetallers as went,
Wot boasted o' their sober 'abits,
As much as thirty-five per cent.
Took fever bad, an' died like rabbits;
While, out o' them as liquored free,
We didn't lose but twenty-three!
When them statistics first I 'eard,
Nobody could 'a hacted quicker;
I 'urried to the 'George the Third,'
An' simply dosed myself wi' liquor.
(Since then a many 'armless orgies
I've 'ad wi' them there Royal Georges.)
An' only yesterday I 'ears
The state o' things as 'ad existed:
O' them toteetal volunteers
There wasn't only three enlisted!
When one fell sick, an' orf 'e went,
'E made that Thirty-five per cent.!
Yes, figures proves you hanythink,
To suit your private way o' thinking,
They proves the blessedness o' drink,
Or else they proves the curse o' drinking;
An', if you manages 'em right,
They proves a'most that black is white!
They proves that British Industries
Is being ruined by the 'dumper';
They proves this year (as ever is)
To be wot people calls a 'bumper.'
An' when on exports they begin,
Lor! wot a muddle they gets in!
They proves as 'ow the iron trade
Is prosperous (or else declining);
That more (or less) was never made
By them as is engaged in mining.
(We gets a varied mental meal
Served up to us on plates o' steel!)
They proves, without the slightest doubt,
Our manufacturies is growin';
They proves we're being quite cut out,
Or else that our 'ome trade's a-goin'.
(In which, per'aps, they ain't so wrong—
It is a-goin', goin' strong!)
But there's some undisputed fac's—
An' even figures won't gainsay it:
One is, if you puts on a tax,
Someone or other 'as to pay it.
('We'll tax the poor man's corn,' says Joe;
'But touch 'is bread? Oh dear me, no!')
If England needs our pounds an' pence,
An' taxes of our food to raise 'em,
It don't require much common-sense
To see as the consumer pays 'em;
The thing I'm anxious for to learn
Is wot does 'e get in return?
When prices they goes up a bit,
The rich exchequer of the nation
Is bound in honour to remit
Somethink by way o' compensation.
(Tho', all the same, I'd like to see
The bloke as talks of tea to me!)
An' that's a ticklish game to win;
We'll stay exactly where we are
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