 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
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.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |