 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
A STATESMAN OF 1882.
Act I—Ireland.
Proteus.
Peace, peace, at any price, my dearest friends,—
Although it cost us war to gain our ends!
I am your Premier—there's not much to do,
And Chancellor of the Exchequer too;
I would not mind another post—or more;
There never was so good a chance before,
For getting all that really can be got,
Indeed, I'd gladly undertake the lot,
But for ambitious men ... Well, so am I,
There's not a mortal thing I would not try.
Yes, there is gentle John, an honest fool,
And victim to the fossil Clapham school
Of virtue, dupe of Principle and Pat,
And so-called conscience: we have changed all that.
His matter is good stuff—too good for knaves,
Who twist his moral saws to drunken staves;
His manners might be mended, just a bit;
For, like his hat, they don't exactly fit
My polished Whigs, at our high festivals.
I'm sick of all those seedy Radicals,
Save gentle John: they give a world of pain.
There is that lump of venom, Charlatain;
He has the hungry, grim, and wolfish looks
Of the old Cassius; and his hands, like hooks,
Stretch out a greedy grasp. If I could drop
Him now, I would; but he expects a sop,
And it may choke him (that's a comfort!) yet;
He is a friend I dare not quite forget,
And seeks a seat that he can never fill,
Though he accomplish all his ugly will.
I'll give him something—he may sweep the shop,
And ply Reform, as housemaids ply the mop,
And sleep beneath the counter in the dust,
And live upon cold water and a crust.
I'll promise every earthly thing they ask,
And squeeze myself into whatever mask
They choose to make; but if conditions change
(As they are sure to) I shall re-arrange
The pretty programme more to my own will,
And at but little cost befool them still.
Badlaw again has tried to force his seat
Upon the Commons, but to court defeat
By a low trick. With his feline look
He entered, read the oath, and kissed the Book
Of Christ, betrayed once more with Judas kiss,
That had the semblance of the serpent's hiss.
It was a dirty trick; but why seek grace
In one who is but matter out of place?
He did some little jobs, and served, poor fool!
My purpose; now he is a worn out-tool.
Although it cost us war to gain our ends!
I am your Premier—there's not much to do,
And Chancellor of the Exchequer too;
I would not mind another post—or more;
There never was so good a chance before,
For getting all that really can be got,
Indeed, I'd gladly undertake the lot,
But for ambitious men ... Well, so am I,
There's not a mortal thing I would not try.
Yes, there is gentle John, an honest fool,
And victim to the fossil Clapham school
Of virtue, dupe of Principle and Pat,
And so-called conscience: we have changed all that.
His matter is good stuff—too good for knaves,
Who twist his moral saws to drunken staves;
His manners might be mended, just a bit;
For, like his hat, they don't exactly fit
My polished Whigs, at our high festivals.
I'm sick of all those seedy Radicals,
Save gentle John: they give a world of pain.
There is that lump of venom, Charlatain;
He has the hungry, grim, and wolfish looks
Of the old Cassius; and his hands, like hooks,
Stretch out a greedy grasp. If I could drop
Him now, I would; but he expects a sop,
And it may choke him (that's a comfort!) yet;
He is a friend I dare not quite forget,
And seeks a seat that he can never fill,
Though he accomplish all his ugly will.
I'll give him something—he may sweep the shop,
And ply Reform, as housemaids ply the mop,
And sleep beneath the counter in the dust,
And live upon cold water and a crust.
514
And squeeze myself into whatever mask
They choose to make; but if conditions change
(As they are sure to) I shall re-arrange
The pretty programme more to my own will,
And at but little cost befool them still.
Badlaw again has tried to force his seat
Upon the Commons, but to court defeat
By a low trick. With his feline look
He entered, read the oath, and kissed the Book
Of Christ, betrayed once more with Judas kiss,
That had the semblance of the serpent's hiss.
It was a dirty trick; but why seek grace
In one who is but matter out of place?
He did some little jobs, and served, poor fool!
My purpose; now he is a worn out-tool.
[Receives telegram from Ireland.
So coaxing fails, and reason is no use,
Though from the first I have been most profuse
In promises! I care not what I say;
It's easy ever to explain away
Whate'er I said, when I don't it indite,
To something that is just the opposite.
Think you I am at all embarrassed yet?
[Produces a magical cabinet.
Though from the first I have been most profuse
In promises! I care not what I say;
It's easy ever to explain away
Whate'er I said, when I don't it indite,
To something that is just the opposite.
Think you I am at all embarrassed yet?
Observe the structure of this cabinet,
Which is my hope, my harbour, and my fort!
I bought it of the brothers Davenport
For a mere song; the public guessed their tricks,
But I apply them now to politics.
You see, I have a host of ready words
And quibbles, that will loose the strongest cords
Or pledges ever tied. Regard me now!
Just let them bind me with the firmest vow,
The heaviest rope that human hands can frame,
Or with the tightest knot that has a name;
And in a moment, by my magic wand
(Which men call Gammon), I will break each bond
And free myself, and, without scratch or fall,
Prove clearly I was never bound at all.
[Another Telegram is handed to him.
Which is my hope, my harbour, and my fort!
I bought it of the brothers Davenport
For a mere song; the public guessed their tricks,
But I apply them now to politics.
You see, I have a host of ready words
And quibbles, that will loose the strongest cords
Or pledges ever tied. Regard me now!
Just let them bind me with the firmest vow,
The heaviest rope that human hands can frame,
Or with the tightest knot that has a name;
And in a moment, by my magic wand
(Which men call Gammon), I will break each bond
And free myself, and, without scratch or fall,
Prove clearly I was never bound at all.
Attempt upon the Queen! Oh, if it's that,
She has as many lives as any cat;
I feared attempt was made upon my own,
Which is more precious far than even the Throne—
To me at least. It's but one more convulsion
Of the departing Devil—
She has as many lives as any cat;
I feared attempt was made upon my own,
Which is more precious far than even the Throne—
To me at least. It's but one more convulsion
Of the departing Devil—
Called “Compulsion”:
“Force is no remedy!”
“Force is no remedy!”
Yes, Gentle John,
I always say so too; though I put on
The screw at times. And murders were but met
Not with more murders, but the bayonet
Of resolution; craft with greater skill,
Police and buckshot—buckshot does not kill,
It tickles. But it's all alike to me,
If Ireland is to be or not to be!
If they desire, I'll turn, as is my wont,
And to the Land League show the fairer front
Of mildness; we must change with changing times;
I always said, “Why punish crime with crimes?”
So the suspects I'll free. And notice, how
I burst the bond of the most binding vow!
Parnell would treason talk, and Dillon hint
At measures he denied when seen in print;
And then I clapped them in Kilmainham both,
Though to extremes I long was very loth.
I had good reason for this step, you see;
And after all, perhaps we shall agree
To settle something for the public weal—
“By compact?”—No, I care not to conceal
The honest truth from every honest man.
There was a purpose in my little plan
For sounding them, to see what they would do;
There may have been some “understanding,” too,
But not a formal “treaty”—not a bit;
To such I never would myself commit,
I'm far too careful . . . Groschen also went
Unto Berlin, but then he was not “sent,”
He had no more a mission than the fool
Who is his wiser comrade's toy or tool.
And the sole mission, that my creatures fill,
Is blind submission to my sovereign will.
I made another friend, who knew my mind
(Not a real “agent,” nothing of the kind)
A “recommended agent,” who might act
Informally—that's quite another fact!
He did not carry with him Peter's Pence,
But took instead a “note of confidence.’
How stupid people are! How they go on!
If I was Erring what was Errington?
[Another telegram arrives.
515
The screw at times. And murders were but met
Not with more murders, but the bayonet
Of resolution; craft with greater skill,
Police and buckshot—buckshot does not kill,
It tickles. But it's all alike to me,
If Ireland is to be or not to be!
If they desire, I'll turn, as is my wont,
And to the Land League show the fairer front
Of mildness; we must change with changing times;
I always said, “Why punish crime with crimes?”
So the suspects I'll free. And notice, how
I burst the bond of the most binding vow!
Parnell would treason talk, and Dillon hint
At measures he denied when seen in print;
And then I clapped them in Kilmainham both,
Though to extremes I long was very loth.
I had good reason for this step, you see;
And after all, perhaps we shall agree
To settle something for the public weal—
“By compact?”—No, I care not to conceal
The honest truth from every honest man.
There was a purpose in my little plan
For sounding them, to see what they would do;
There may have been some “understanding,” too,
But not a formal “treaty”—not a bit;
To such I never would myself commit,
I'm far too careful . . . Groschen also went
Unto Berlin, but then he was not “sent,”
He had no more a mission than the fool
Who is his wiser comrade's toy or tool.
And the sole mission, that my creatures fill,
Is blind submission to my sovereign will.
I made another friend, who knew my mind
(Not a real “agent,” nothing of the kind)
A “recommended agent,” who might act
Informally—that's quite another fact!
He did not carry with him Peter's Pence,
But took instead a “note of confidence.’
How stupid people are! How they go on!
If I was Erring what was Errington?
A telegram! How goes the Irish game?
No doubt, more heartless murders, with the same
Old bloody story? . . . No, the news is good:
Forcer resigns, who has so long withstood
My plans; because I called his measures rough,
And then refused to give him rope enough
To hang assassins; so he seeks the Shelf.
Go, Forcer, if you will, and hang yourself;
I never loved you, and I feared your will
Would clash with mine; although I keep the Till,
And mean to keep what you shall never gain.
No doubt, more heartless murders, with the same
Old bloody story? . . . No, the news is good:
Forcer resigns, who has so long withstood
My plans; because I called his measures rough,
And then refused to give him rope enough
To hang assassins; so he seeks the Shelf.
Go, Forcer, if you will, and hang yourself;
516
Would clash with mine; although I keep the Till,
And mean to keep what you shall never gain.
Now, shall I give the post to Charlatain?
He would not take it; he's a prudent man,
And loves his person better than his plan,
Though plan he has. But there is dear Trevelyan,
Whose very face would crush the worst rebellion;
And Cavendish.
He would not take it; he's a prudent man,
And loves his person better than his plan,
Though plan he has. But there is dear Trevelyan,
Whose very face would crush the worst rebellion;
And Cavendish.
Yes, Cavendish will do,
A gentleman, and—a relation, too!
[Telegram again comes.
A gentleman, and—a relation, too!
But there is something fresh ... Lord Sloper swerves
Like a raw curate jibbing, full of nerves
And sentiments. So he resigns as well;
Says he might govern earth, but cannot hell.
Thus rats, false friends, and other vermin fly
The doomèd house or ship, that may supply
No longer food and shelter. Let them flee!
More room (and more emoluments) for me.
Who shall have Ireland now? A Royal Prince
Could stop a bullet, and would never wince.
But Spencer's gone, he likes a stirring scene,
And with him takes once more his Fairy Queen.
[Another telegram.
Like a raw curate jibbing, full of nerves
And sentiments. So he resigns as well;
Says he might govern earth, but cannot hell.
Thus rats, false friends, and other vermin fly
The doomèd house or ship, that may supply
No longer food and shelter. Let them flee!
More room (and more emoluments) for me.
Who shall have Ireland now? A Royal Prince
Could stop a bullet, and would never wince.
But Spencer's gone, he likes a stirring scene,
And with him takes once more his Fairy Queen.
What's this? Another telegram? Good news
Again, I hope, from those tempestuous stews
In rebel Ireland . . . O, the damnéd tale!
Has then the devil burst his fiery pale,
And armèd with all hell now broken out,
To reign in bloodshed over the dread rout
Of black assassins? He has got his wish,
But I have lost my soul in Cavendish
And Burke, in daylight done to shameful death,
Though speaking mercy with their latest breath.
Those knives are in my heart! Their edges fierce,
At individuals aimed, the bosom pierce
Of the whole nation, which for justice cries;
For in their death a mighty people dies.
My heart is bleeding. And, O God, I see,
Those bloody stains are on my hands and me!
But there is comfort still, and after all,
If princes pass, the Prince can never fall.
Though individuals go they cannot slay
My politics, which alter every day,
And will outlast a hundred mortal lives,
As the great Type its fleeting form survives,
Immortal yet. So, to tell truth, between us,
I am no mortal person, but a Genus—
At least a species!
Again, I hope, from those tempestuous stews
In rebel Ireland . . . O, the damnéd tale!
Has then the devil burst his fiery pale,
And armèd with all hell now broken out,
To reign in bloodshed over the dread rout
Of black assassins? He has got his wish,
But I have lost my soul in Cavendish
And Burke, in daylight done to shameful death,
Though speaking mercy with their latest breath.
Those knives are in my heart! Their edges fierce,
At individuals aimed, the bosom pierce
Of the whole nation, which for justice cries;
For in their death a mighty people dies.
My heart is bleeding. And, O God, I see,
Those bloody stains are on my hands and me!
But there is comfort still, and after all,
If princes pass, the Prince can never fall.
Though individuals go they cannot slay
My politics, which alter every day,
And will outlast a hundred mortal lives,
517
Immortal yet. So, to tell truth, between us,
I am no mortal person, but a Genus—
At least a species!
And, as time has proved,
I flit from state to state, myself unmoved,
I flit from state to state, myself unmoved,
Coercion now—a Crimes Act! I will try
Force, even if it is no remedy.
Lest they misjudge me and my motive still,
I must disguise with jam the bitter pill;
This nice Arrears Act now comes neatly in;
Commissioners will good opinions win;
And I have blesséd opiates if you please,
That calm yet, if they do not cure, disease.
And open am I to Amendments too
Upon the Land Act, if they only woo
In humbler tone, and take their proper level;
I'd gladly give them all unto the Devil.
Here, as in Egypt, though good people fret,
The Tories left us a tremendous debt;
And all our troubles, through no fault of mine—
Well, I'll give all, but this—I won't resign.
I know my duty. Let them take by force,
And kill my colleagues—not myself, of course;
But I will fool them yet. I'm equal quite
To their most subtle craft, and murderous spite,
Aye, and the direst curse and deepest ill,
(And they shall have it), is their wicked will.
Let Parnell out; he is no more to fear,
Nor Dillon, like the Devil at his ear,
Still darkly whispering what he dare not say.
Let them have all, and go their damnéd way,
Though wretched Ireland bleeds at every pore,
Now that confounded Land League is no more.
Patience must win—they cannot tire me out,
Though I am free to turn and turn about.
They cannot shake the confidence I feel
In destiny; I laugh at shot and steel.
I'll not be tamely pistolled in the Lobby,
While by my side remains one faithful Bobby.
Force, even if it is no remedy.
Lest they misjudge me and my motive still,
I must disguise with jam the bitter pill;
This nice Arrears Act now comes neatly in;
Commissioners will good opinions win;
And I have blesséd opiates if you please,
That calm yet, if they do not cure, disease.
And open am I to Amendments too
Upon the Land Act, if they only woo
In humbler tone, and take their proper level;
I'd gladly give them all unto the Devil.
Here, as in Egypt, though good people fret,
The Tories left us a tremendous debt;
And all our troubles, through no fault of mine—
Well, I'll give all, but this—I won't resign.
I know my duty. Let them take by force,
And kill my colleagues—not myself, of course;
But I will fool them yet. I'm equal quite
To their most subtle craft, and murderous spite,
Aye, and the direst curse and deepest ill,
(And they shall have it), is their wicked will.
Let Parnell out; he is no more to fear,
Nor Dillon, like the Devil at his ear,
Still darkly whispering what he dare not say.
Let them have all, and go their damnéd way,
Though wretched Ireland bleeds at every pore,
Now that confounded Land League is no more.
Patience must win—they cannot tire me out,
Though I am free to turn and turn about.
They cannot shake the confidence I feel
In destiny; I laugh at shot and steel.
I'll not be tamely pistolled in the Lobby,
While by my side remains one faithful Bobby.
Every Day We Change Our Coats.
Every day we change our coats,Every day we sing new notes,
But the burden is the same,
And we only change the name.
Say, what is a mere majority
But “a little brief authority”?
518
Represented now, say we.
Stick to office, that's the trick;
Stick to office, stick, stick, stick!
Turn your coats, and, double quick,
Lick the dishes, lick, lick, lick!
They're “found out,” and we're found in,
So we cannot choose but win;
Party needs, of course, must range
“Down the ringing grooves of 'Change.”
For the Whig and for the Tory,
It is quite a different story;
We stop in and they go out,
While we dance our turnabout.
Stick to office, that's the trick;
Stick to office, stick—stick—stick.
Take their coats, and, double quick,
Pick the pockets, pick, pick, pick.
So we cannot choose but win;
Party needs, of course, must range
“Down the ringing grooves of 'Change.”
For the Whig and for the Tory,
It is quite a different story;
We stop in and they go out,
While we dance our turnabout.
Stick to office, that's the trick;
Stick to office, stick—stick—stick.
Take their coats, and, double quick,
Pick the pockets, pick, pick, pick.
The Government suffered a defeat on the Procedure Bill, but showed more signs of patience than resignation.
Act II.—Egypt.
Proteus.[Taking up his parable again.
“You promised peace,” my friends observe, “but now
The Alexandrian forts are, like your vow
Broken!” . . . But they once more mistake the fact;
I have not broken ever yet my pact,
And never will; nor shall my efforts cease
To pacify the land . . . “But is this peace?
“Peace!” not exactly peace, but still not war;
I always said, I would not go so far.
Let them define their terms: there is no doubt,
War only may be strictly carried out
With notice, when political pomatum
Has failed; and this is the last Ultimatum,
Of good old Granny! . . . They would rather not,
And call these “arguments of shell and shot,
And downright war.” . . It's nothing of the kind.
If they distinguish rightly, they will find,
There are so many different sorts of Peace;
And what they christen War is a fresh lease,
Or altering of the terms by which we hold.
There's Peace pacific—getting rather old;
And Peace aggressive—at the bayonet's point,
When the conditions have got out of joint,
And readjusting need, like a lame wife;
Extremities, we know, demand the knife,
And if it raise at times a little storm,
Their “War” is Peace in its most active form.
Ask common sense; it's but a change of face,
And War is simply Peace in the wrong place.
And though the bearings may appear extensive,
All these attacks are nothing but “defensive.”
Though Gentle John has fled and Tories fleer
At such secessions, yet I well can steer
The ship alone. His sentimental heart
Has ever hampered me in my great part,
Like France in Egypt. Nero burnt down Rome,
To build him up a true palatial home;
They say so, if you can believe it all—
I don't, of course. But still, at Party's call,
We may some day have to perform the same,
And such a bonfire kindle in the game,
As never shall go out!
The Alexandrian forts are, like your vow
Broken!” . . . But they once more mistake the fact;
I have not broken ever yet my pact,
And never will; nor shall my efforts cease
To pacify the land . . . “But is this peace?
“Peace!” not exactly peace, but still not war;
I always said, I would not go so far.
Let them define their terms: there is no doubt,
War only may be strictly carried out
With notice, when political pomatum
Has failed; and this is the last Ultimatum,
Of good old Granny! . . . They would rather not,
And call these “arguments of shell and shot,
And downright war.” . . It's nothing of the kind.
If they distinguish rightly, they will find,
There are so many different sorts of Peace;
And what they christen War is a fresh lease,
Or altering of the terms by which we hold.
There's Peace pacific—getting rather old;
And Peace aggressive—at the bayonet's point,
When the conditions have got out of joint,
And readjusting need, like a lame wife;
Extremities, we know, demand the knife,
And if it raise at times a little storm,
Their “War” is Peace in its most active form.
519
And War is simply Peace in the wrong place.
And though the bearings may appear extensive,
All these attacks are nothing but “defensive.”
Though Gentle John has fled and Tories fleer
At such secessions, yet I well can steer
The ship alone. His sentimental heart
Has ever hampered me in my great part,
Like France in Egypt. Nero burnt down Rome,
To build him up a true palatial home;
They say so, if you can believe it all—
I don't, of course. But still, at Party's call,
We may some day have to perform the same,
And such a bonfire kindle in the game,
As never shall go out!
Old Spain is dead,
Like Turkey; but still Russia rears a head
Of misty menace on the Persian front;
And Bismarck darkly plots, as is his wont;
Italians show how they repay the debt
Of gratitude, and they can hate us yet
But harm us not. And France, with sullen soul,
Hopes for a Dual state in the Control:
A duel were more likely. I've my heel
On Egypt, and I mean to make it feel
That bondholders can fight as well as fret,
And obligations must be honoured yet.
“But are these ruins Peace—the bloody creases
Branded in England's Flag?”—Well, call them Peaces.
Like Turkey; but still Russia rears a head
Of misty menace on the Persian front;
And Bismarck darkly plots, as is his wont;
Italians show how they repay the debt
Of gratitude, and they can hate us yet
But harm us not. And France, with sullen soul,
Hopes for a Dual state in the Control:
A duel were more likely. I've my heel
On Egypt, and I mean to make it feel
That bondholders can fight as well as fret,
And obligations must be honoured yet.
“But are these ruins Peace—the bloody creases
Branded in England's Flag?”—Well, call them Peaces.
Here comes my shop-boy, like a dustman's bell,
Who does my dirty work, and does it well.
What next?
Who does my dirty work, and does it well.
What next?
Charlatain.
The final battle now is fought
And won at Tel-el-kebir, as we thought
It would be settled! Arabi is ours,
And waves our glorious flag on Cairo's towers.
The gallant men did wonders—marched all night;
And favouring fortune proves the folly right;
Then, in the foeman's face, they calmy formed,
And with one rush the fiery wall was stormed.
'Twas a mad scheme, but that should not be heeded:
The madness answered, as it has succeeded.
Proteus.
Thus barren sessions, if they have a root,
May yet with forcing bear some Autumn fruit,
And blind the people. My Procedure Bill
Must law become, and I shall work my will
About the Clôture, and can laugh at fate
When I have crushed the freedom of debate.
520
And folks will have to put up with Verbosities
Vulgarian.
Charlatain.
What of wounded Egypt's fate?
Brave Arabi, of course, you'll reinstate,
Like Cetewayo, and give Egypt back
To the Egyptians. . . . What if England lack?
Let's bravely bear the bitter cost and pain,
As in the Transvaal, and be kind again,
Surrendering all, and face the Tories' curse
With a full heart, albeit an empty purse.
Proteus.
This course may please—if only Caucus prigs;
And I shall lose those patronising Whigs,
With their traditions. Well, I can but burn
My former idols, now it suits my turn,
And change conditions—and they do, you know;
Transition is the law of things below,
And relative are all, both men and nations;
One might have even to sacrifice relations—
Go, tell those stiff-necked Whigs,
Charlatain.
I go, my friend;
But I would never say, of course, you “send.”
Proteus.
Whatever happens, it shall serve me still,
If only as the stuff of some new Bill.
I weary am of supercilious airs,
And social starch, and tramping up the stairs
Of duchesses, till this poor head is hoar,
Because I am a lion and can roar;
Not that they love me. It's too great a tension;
I'll drop them and their jewelled condescension.
What do they say?
Charlatain.
They all resign, and bid
You drive more nails in your own coffin lid,
Which you are making with your madness.
Proteus.
Well!
—But here is something novel yet to tell;
For I have changed my mind again, and plan
To govern Egypt for the Englishman,
That it may pay our little expeditions.
For there has been a change in the conditions,
Since you departed.
Charlatain.
Oh, the bitter cup!
Do you, indeed, at this late hour, throw up
Your truest friends, who gave you all you have,
And bury faith in this poor country's grave?
It cannot be. And yet I feel it's fact,
521
“I and my colleagues” leave you to your doom,
While clouds of shame are gathering round in gloom,
Like winding sheets.
Proteus.
That's good! Now there is hope,
For I have really broken the last rope
That bound me, and ambition's wings can fly
Up to the Heaven of Power, in liberty.
I can discard them, now that things look calmer,
As I did Gill and Charrington and Palmer;
And dead men tell no tales.
For I have really broken the last rope
That bound me, and ambition's wings can fly
Up to the Heaven of Power, in liberty.
I can discard them, now that things look calmer,
As I did Gill and Charrington and Palmer;
And dead men tell no tales.
No boys again!
I'll keep the shop more clean than Charlatain,
With all his mopping. Aye, let him go out,
And talk of conscience when it's really gout.
For I have lived to carry my intent;
I am alone the British Government!
Now I can breathe; at length I'm truly free,
And know how beautiful it is to be,
When all my friends are gathered to the Shelf,
And no one can oppose me but myself—
That's quite enough. ... And I may change the story,
And end (as I began) an honest Tory.
Turn and turn and turn about.
I'll keep the shop more clean than Charlatain,
With all his mopping. Aye, let him go out,
And talk of conscience when it's really gout.
For I have lived to carry my intent;
I am alone the British Government!
Now I can breathe; at length I'm truly free,
And know how beautiful it is to be,
When all my friends are gathered to the Shelf,
And no one can oppose me but myself—
That's quite enough. ... And I may change the story,
And end (as I began) an honest Tory.
Turn, and turn, and turn about.
They shall never turn me out;
Let the conscience pine and pout,
Conscience is a form of gout.
Louder and yet louder shout.
Spoil the landlords, let them spout,
I will clean and clean them out;
Mine be plenty, theirs be drought,
Let them starve if I am stout.
Wield the Clôture like a knout,
On the head of Tory tout,
Fenian rebel, Home Rule rout,
Spare them not one honest clout.
Maddened Manchester may scout
Measures that it can but flout,
Birmingham and every lout
Grow (like dying knaves) devout.
Turn, and turn, and turn about,
They shall never turn me out;
Let the conscience pine and pout,
Conscience is a form of gout.
They shall never turn me out;
Let the conscience pine and pout,
Conscience is a form of gout.
Louder and yet louder shout.
Spoil the landlords, let them spout,
I will clean and clean them out;
Mine be plenty, theirs be drought,
Let them starve if I am stout.
Wield the Clôture like a knout,
On the head of Tory tout,
Fenian rebel, Home Rule rout,
Spare them not one honest clout.
Maddened Manchester may scout
Measures that it can but flout,
Birmingham and every lout
Grow (like dying knaves) devout.
Turn, and turn, and turn about,
They shall never turn me out;
Let the conscience pine and pout,
Conscience is a form of gout.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |