University of Virginia Library

Tories brag of broad dominions,
On their neighbours growing fat;
These are honest men's opinions—
I'm a Social Democrat.
I opine the State is rotten,
Destined to the fiery forge;
When the plunder so ill-gotten,
Thieves though titled must disgorge.
Though the workers too have stumbled,
Wandered far from track of right,
Masks, which mocked their hopes and humbled,
Grinned between them and the light.
Nay, we cannot blame the people,
It is falsehood that they read,
Hear proclaimed from tower and steeple,
By their guardians who mislead.
Ever was and ever will be,
While the Briton boasts a shop,
While cheap wine is sold by Gilbey,
Scum that rises to the top—
Froth that makes a show and glitter,
Froth that sputters and is spent;
While the gold, so fair and fitter,
Has no value and no vent.
Nay, we dare not blame the masses,
If they fancy night is day;
But the braying of the asses,
Who their dupes would guide astray.
Priests may err with pious kneeling,
Poets even lie in song;
But a nation's mighty feeling,
Never, never can be wrong.
It is knaves who play at schooling,
Be it parliament or pen;
Who, while Fate themselves is fooling,
Turn to beasts of burden men.
Dotards, who to reign have lusted,
Though they carry cap and bells;
Who, with sacred rights entrusted,
Poison all a country's wells.
Robbers, who remove the landmarks,
That took centuries to trace;
And but leave on fleeting sand marks,
Which the tide will soon efface.
Wreckers, who the State could weaken,
By their shameful hidden shocks;
And uplifting treacherous beacon,
Lure the vessel on the rocks.
Blood-suckers, who, but for gaining,
Chopping keep their tune and chimes;
And, old books of beauty staining,
Write the story of their times.
Sots, who, when a realm is sinking,
Split mere hairs and measure straws;
Pass the social bottle, drinking
To the health of class-made laws.
O the comic range of choices!
Some are filled with gallows chat,
Others hang on ducal voices—
I'm a Social Democrat.

There are Editors who edit,
There are Editors who don't;
Hirelings, who have lost their credit,
But their filthy money won't.
Soon they must accounts be making,
How they earned their monstrous fees,
To the masses now awaking,
That are final legatees.
They must stand before their master,
Answer for their trifling tricks,
If they build our bulwarks fast, or
Only deal with bogus bricks—
If, to float a lying journal,
They espouse the traitor's part,
While they toy with truth eternal,
And from gutters borrow art.
Ah, they pawn their country's honour,
They would welcome stake and curse,
And would burn their saints, like Bonner—
If it added to the purse.
They would sell a mighty nation,
And her glory brand with scars,
For the largest circulation
And the very best cigars.
They would hail a despot's wishes,
And indorse the crime he wooes—
Aye, lick up his dirty dishes,
And black all his bloody shoes;
If by paid and perjured treason,
And by wallowing as swine,
They might have a merrier season,
And might purchase better wine;
If they so could make a marriage,
That would foist them into fame,
And parade a prouder carriage,
For the shabby price of shame.
What is England's ancient story,
And her grand historic flag,
To the knave who turns a Tory,
Just to fill his Judas bag?
What are principles to places,
And consistencies to powers?
What renown to Derby races,
And a faith to hothouse flowers?
What are laws to social station,
What are measures unto men,
Who “scotch” England's reputation,
With the scratching of a pen?
What is duty to a dinner,
In the fashion, with a swell?
What is frailty, if the sinner
Duly paints and powders well?
What is justice to mere actors?
What is petted bird to cat?
Others are unsocial factors,
I'm a Social Democrat.

What is any d---d division,
In the pestilential House,
To the Editor's decision,
But the mountain and the mouse?
What are hoary creeds and morals,
Or the decalogues of schools,
If not jingling bells and corals,
Just to quiet babes and fools?
What are sacred place and portals,
What is even the Civil List,
To that monster, pest of mortals—
To the jaunty journalist?
If he chance to cut a finger,
If some tender tooth should pain;
Church or State affairs may linger,
Till he is himself again.
Perish India, wrecked be Ireland,
Empire suffer any cost,
Fall in misery and mire land,
Rather than his nap be lost.
Lower class may war with upper,
Feel starvation's hangman gripe;
If he simply wants his supper,
Or a casual quiet pipe.
Criminal may be his lenience,
None will dare to censure him;
All must bow to his convenience,
All must curtsey to his whim.
Pots that flow with milk and honey,
He reserves upon his shelf—
Aye, he only aims at money,
And he only loves himself.
Handling of the gravest question,
Though a Premier tug his bell,
Just depend on his digestion,
If he dines or slumbers well.
When his spleen is in ascendance,
Or his hobby wants a bait,
Kings and queens may dance attendance,
Parliament and people wait.
Birds of prey have stealthy manners,
Darkness love the owl and bat;
We fear not to show our banners;
I'm a Social Democrat.

This the stuff to make memorials,
Falsify a nation's tale!
Editors and Editorials,
Bottled infamies and ale!
Dreams and dreams from cushioned quarter,
Worlds observed from club and cab!
Sparkling spite and milk and water,
Judas kiss and coward stab!
Thanks to Fashion's yoke and Fortune,
Thanks to greed for social gain;
Thousands may for bread importune,
Thousands die and die in vain.
Teachers, who should fight our battles,
Purchased are by smile or gold—
By the Devil's bribes, as chattels
On the market bought and sold.
Good, to be a daily winner,
Putting something in the pan;
Best, be true, though growing thinner,
Starving still to be a man.
Bad, to be a drone consuming,
Adding nothing to the stock;
Worst, to be a light illuming,
Only to the fatal rock.
These, my comrades, are your leaders,
Who to shambles but decoy;
These the miserable pleaders
Who their clients would destroy!
These the gods we called upon us,
Worshipped in an evil hour—
Gods who, like King Stork or Chronos,
Slaves infatuate devour!
Once I liked the names with handles,
Once supposed the earth was flat;
Now I court the sun, not candles;
I'm a Social Democrat.

Once I styled myself a Tory,
Once burnt incense at the shrine,
Where the laurels all are gory,
Where the gods are crownéd swine.
Once I was a child, and cheated
By the semblance and the sound;
Once I was a fool, and treated
Shams and shades as holy ground.
Now, a man, I know the better,
Strike against the false and ill;
Now I broken have the fetter,
Which is myriads holding still.
But I see the gleam of morning,
Rifting the horizon gray;
Glimpse of Liberty, that, scorning
Lies, announces endless day.
For the Giant now is waking,
Out of long and sullen sleep;
With a shadow and a shaking,
From the turret to the deep.
When he rises thrones will tumble,
Stricken with avenging death;
Prison walls and shackles crumble,
At the blasting of his breath.
Ha, the mighty downtrod masses
Shall unite, and with their flood
Sweep away the bloated classes,
That have battened on their blood.
Then hurrah for Revolution,
For the bayonet and gun;
That is now the sole solution,
With its red and rising sun,
For the dark and damnéd riddle,
Which has blighted many a home,
When the ransomed slaves shall fiddle,
On the ruins of their Rome.
Once I was a foolish baby,
I have had enough of that;
Got my teeth, and wisdom—may be;
I'm a Social Democrat.