Read Ebook: Fiscal Ballads by Graham Harry

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Ebook has 150 lines and 11810 words, and 3 pages

For they showed us, in the war, They was loyal to the core, An' they're ready for to 'elp us when we flounders; An' tho' 'ere and there, per'aps, There's some discontented chaps, As 'll grumble, like them there Alaskan Bounders; Still, they're British to the backbone when the dawgs o' war is loosed, An' they'll stick by Mother England till the cows comes 'ome to roost!

PREFERENTIAL TREATMENT

We was always a hintimate family, An' we doted on one another; I was genuine fond o' my Uncle Fred, And o' Cousin Jim I've a-often said 'E was more like my own born brother; An' a feeling of 'earty affection I 'ad For Kate, wot 'ad married my eldest lad.

Last winter it were, when times was bad, That Jim 'ad a 'appy thought; 'Ow fine it'd be if we'd all agree On a kind of a mutual trade, sez 'e, For our things as we sold an' bought; We'd 'elp one another , An' be getting our goods at a lower price.

I'd tinker the boots o' the family cheap, An' get 'ome on my uncle's beer, Nor I wouldn't be 'avin' to strain my means A-buying expensive pertaters an' greens Orf o' Cousin Jim, no fear! An' for luxuries, such as the missus eats, I could get 'em 'alf-price orf o' Katie's sweets.

But it didn't work. For my Uncle Fred 'E treated me crool unfair; I sold 'im some shoes, starvation price, But I 'adn't a-tasted 'is beer but twice When 'e said as I'd drunk my share! Then I mended a couple o' pairs o' Kate's-- But sweets is a thing as the missus 'ates.

Tho' for Cousin Jimmy I took an' made A set o' new 'eels and soles, I was paying for greens at a 'igher rate Than 'e charged to my Uncle Fred, or to Kate, An' 'is cheeses was full of 'oles!

Now, I 'aven't spoke to my Uncle Fred For nigh on six months or more, An' I've ceased to 'ave dealings with Cousin Jim , An' I never won't darken 'is door; An' I've 'ad quite enough o' that rubbish o' Kate's, Wot was always the kind of a woman I 'ates.

If England's a-going to 'aggle an' fight For Colonial Preference, If the love of 'er sons for the Motherland Is a kind of a feeling as only can stand On a basis o' shillings an' pence, That sort o' foundation won't last overlong, An' there's something, I lay, must be 'opelessly wrong.

When the Colonies 'eld out their 'ands to us, It wasn't for British gold; But who 'll vouch for the love o' the Britisher-born, When 'e bargains 'is honour for tariffs on corn, An' 'is loyalty's bartered an' sold?

We shall 'ave them Australian Governments A-striking for better terms, An' there's sure to be plenty o' grumbling when The Canadian manufacturing men Is competing wi' Henglish firms; An' each separate part o' the Hempire 'll feel As the others is 'aving the best o' the deal.

From which, if you follows my meaning through, There's a obvious moral to draw: Let's consider the Motherland's future, afore We allows 'er to risk being Mother no more, An' becoming the Mother-in-law! For if loyalty's paid for, it ain't worth a thought, An' affection's a fraud if it 'as to be bought.

BRITISH TRADE

Oh, why was I born a English lad, In a island all shut in by sea? Wot a much better chance I might 'ave 'ad If I'd only been 'made in Germanee'! Oh, why was I thus unwilling 'urled On the blooming 'dust-'eap o' the world.'

No doubt as the German artisan Don't get very much in the matter o' pay; But 'e works on the seven-days-weekly plan, With a haverage thirteen hours a day. An' 'e 'asn't no time for to sit an' think, Nor money enough to take to drink!

Then give me a permanent German job, With nothink at all but work to do; With weekly wages o' sixteen bob, For to keep myself an' the missus too; A-makin' them gimcrack German toys For poor little English gals an' boys.

To my London 'ome I'll say good-bye, For I 'asn't no use for a open port, Where the workin' wage is a deal too 'igh, An' the workin' hours is far too short; Where a workin'-man 'as time to sleep, An' food's to be 'ad so rotten cheap.

A German factory's more my taste, With none o' them lazy English ways, Where there ain't no money or time to waste On ridic'lous 'beanos' an' 'olidays; An' the workin' classes can just contrive To earn sufficient to keep alive.

When I slaves all day at a German trade, A-makin' them goods as they dumps down 'ere, When I'm overworked an' I'm underpaid, Till I feels as weak as that German beer, I'll think o' my English 'ome maybe, Where everythink is free!

When I gets back 'ome of a Sunday night, With a supper o' nice black bread to eat, I'll 'ave such a 'ealthy appetite, I never won't need no butcher's meat; For 'unger, o' course, is the finest sauce, When you're swollerin' sausages made of 'orse!

An' I begs to state, when I comes 'ome late, With a 'ungry kind of a look in my eye, If I 'as to wait, with a hempty plate, Till the blooming cat's-meat-man comes by, I'll think wi' scorn o' the old 'dust-'eap,' Where mutton an' beef's to be bought so cheap.

For we don't know nothink o' 'orse-flesh 'ere, But Joe 'e'll learn us to eat it, when 'Is tariff makes British meat too dear For the pockets o' British workin' men; An' they're 'aving their Little Marys lined With a diet o' maize an' bacon rind!

There's lessons to learn from German trade, In spite o' this foolish fiscal fuss; Tho' their peoples ain't no better paid, Nor near as well orf for food as us; For, wotever the German workman's lot, 'E knows 'ow to use wot brains 'e's got!

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.

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 Saturdays 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.

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.

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. .

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.

When them statistics first I 'eard, Nobody could 'a hacted quicker; I 'urried to the 'George the Third,' An' simply dosed myself wi' liquor.

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 To be wot people calls a 'bumper.' An' when on exports they begin, Lor! wot a muddle they gets in!

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'.

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