Fiscal Ballads Part 2

An' if _our_ employers 'd only learn A few o' they furrin commercial ways, To make the business their first concern, An' not be so set upon 'olidays, They wouldn't be always a-'urrying orf, For the sake of a afternoon at gorf!

With the wants o' the trade they'd keep in touch, An' 'd sometimes stay at the orfice late; If their business methods ain't up to much, They, at any rate, could be up-to-date!

For there isn't no need of a fiscal fence, If you've henergy coupled wi' common-sense!

We English ain't a-doing our best, An' that's the reason we loses ground; It's time as we took more interest, An' the chance 'as come to buck-up all round.

No need for to put it in doggerel rhymes, To see as we're right be'ind the times.

For it's Heducation we wants, that's all, To make us the country we ought to be.

If we rides for a fall at a tariff wall, We'll very soon find ourselves at sea.

(Which the simile's somewot mixed, you'll say, But the meanin's clear as the open day!)

Then 'ere's a 'ealth to the Motherland, For all as they says she's goin' to pot; Ole England's 'wooden walls' 'll stand When the fiscal fences is all forgot!

An' she'll 'old 'er own, by land or sea, So long as 'er sons an' 'er trade is free!

CONTROVERSIAL ENTERTAINMENT

On Sat.u.r.days I often goes An' spends a evenin' in the pit At one of them vari'ty shows, An' makes a 'appy night of it; But since this fiscal row begun, I've 'ad to look elsewheres for fun.

I'm partial to a music-'all, But when last week I chanced to go, I 'eard some low-necked blighter bawl A Jingo song in praise o' Joe; 'No more will England,' sez this crank, 'Trade with the German an' the Yank!'

At furrin countries, o'er the sea, A lot o' silly jeers 'e 'urled; Thinks I, where would ole England be Without the market o' the 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-cla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 s.e.x.

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, sh.e.l.l 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, n.o.body 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 'b.u.mper.'

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 if Them blooming furrin goods comes in, In spite of our protective tariff!