 | Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 |  |
141
JOHN BROWN'S ANSWER
I've listened to your song, and, unless I'm very wrong,
There is much in it of what we now call “bosh,” Tom Smith.
It is easy so to sing, but to do's, another thing,
And I fear your philosophy won't wash, Tom Smith.
Of course that's not your name, but 'twill answer all the same
For the person I'm presumed to argue with, Tom Smith;
And offended you can't be, as you've done the same by me,
For I'm no more John Brown than you're Tom Smith, Tom Smith.
There is much in it of what we now call “bosh,” Tom Smith.
It is easy so to sing, but to do's, another thing,
And I fear your philosophy won't wash, Tom Smith.
Of course that's not your name, but 'twill answer all the same
For the person I'm presumed to argue with, Tom Smith;
And offended you can't be, as you've done the same by me,
For I'm no more John Brown than you're Tom Smith, Tom Smith.
What you love and what you hate, you're at liberty to state;
I've nothing upon earth with that to do, Tom Smith;
“De gustibus non est,” I've no doubt you know the rest,
And besides, I've much the same dislikes as you, Tom Smith.
It's on matters of finance, in which there's no romance,
I would break with you a lance, if you please, Tom Smith.
I'm myself a family man, and I don't believe you can
Contrive to live with yours on bread and cheese, Tom Smith.
I've nothing upon earth with that to do, Tom Smith;
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And besides, I've much the same dislikes as you, Tom Smith.
It's on matters of finance, in which there's no romance,
I would break with you a lance, if you please, Tom Smith.
I'm myself a family man, and I don't believe you can
Contrive to live with yours on bread and cheese, Tom Smith.
You've “a hundred pounds a year;” well, let's say it's even clear
Of Income Tax: that's not two pounds a week, Tom Smith.
But the cottage is “your own,” so the rent must in be thrown,
Which I grant will help your income out to eke, Tom Smith.
Per contra you've a wife, as dear to you as life—
I hope she is, I'm sure, for both your sakes, Tom Smith—
But the more you hold her dear, the more must be your fear
If anything that little income shakes, Tom Smith.
Of Income Tax: that's not two pounds a week, Tom Smith.
But the cottage is “your own,” so the rent must in be thrown,
Which I grant will help your income out to eke, Tom Smith.
Per contra you've a wife, as dear to you as life—
I hope she is, I'm sure, for both your sakes, Tom Smith—
But the more you hold her dear, the more must be your fear
If anything that little income shakes, Tom Smith.
Of children you've a troop, an interesting group,
But to tell how many form it you forget, Tom Smith;
Say five or six in all, which for “a troop” is small,
Of bread and butter they must eat a lot, Tom Smith.
Of their clothes you may be spare—but they cannot go quite bare;
And on whooping-cough and measles you must count, Tom Smith;
And if only one be ill, I'm afraid the doctor's bill
Might at Christmas prove a serious amount, Tom Smith.
But to tell how many form it you forget, Tom Smith;
Say five or six in all, which for “a troop” is small,
Of bread and butter they must eat a lot, Tom Smith.
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And on whooping-cough and measles you must count, Tom Smith;
And if only one be ill, I'm afraid the doctor's bill
Might at Christmas prove a serious amount, Tom Smith.
'Tis philosophy, no doubt, trifles not to fret about,
And “Sufficient for the day” is a fine text, Tom Smith;
But at the garden gate, do you never scratch your pate,
When you think what's in the cupboard for the next, Tom Smith?
The pot you know must boil, 'twould be better sure to toil,
And add by honest labour to your store, Tom Smith,
Than moon away your time in philosophic rhyme,
Or sitting 'neath your shady sycamore, Tom Smith.
And “Sufficient for the day” is a fine text, Tom Smith;
But at the garden gate, do you never scratch your pate,
When you think what's in the cupboard for the next, Tom Smith?
The pot you know must boil, 'twould be better sure to toil,
And add by honest labour to your store, Tom Smith,
Than moon away your time in philosophic rhyme,
Or sitting 'neath your shady sycamore, Tom Smith.
You bid me, as I pass, come and drain with you a glass,
But it cannot be of wine or beer or grog, Tom Smith;
'Tis more like “Adam's ale,” I'm afraid, than “Bass's pale,”
And to drink—I water shun, like a mad dog, Tom Smith.
If “a guinea you've to spend,” I advise you as your friend
To put it in the Savings Bank forthwith, Tom Smith;
You will want it before long and sing another song,
Unless, as I suspect, you are a myth, Tom Smith.
But it cannot be of wine or beer or grog, Tom Smith;
'Tis more like “Adam's ale,” I'm afraid, than “Bass's pale,”
And to drink—I water shun, like a mad dog, Tom Smith.
144
To put it in the Savings Bank forthwith, Tom Smith;
You will want it before long and sing another song,
Unless, as I suspect, you are a myth, Tom Smith.
| Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 | |