Fiscal Ballads. Graham Harry

      I've 'ad a quarrel with 'Enery Slade,

      'Oo keeps our only village inn;

      'E said as 'is shoes was badly made,

      An' I said as 'is 'alf-an'-'alf was thin.

      'No more o' your boots I'll buy,' sez 'e,

      'An' no more o' your beer,' sez I, 'for me!'

      Nex' time as 'is shoes was out o' repair,

      'E took 'em to Lunnon, 'Enery did;

      An' wot wi' the bill an' the railway fare,

      Why, it cost 'im werry near 'alf a quid.

      If 'e'd stayed at 'ome an' give me the job,

      'E wouldn't 'a paid but a couple o' bob!

      Now, tinkering boots is a thirsty trade,

      Which them as 'as tried it won't deny,

      But I wouldn't get beer orf o' 'Enery Slade,

      An' there wasn't no other's as I could buy;

      An' so, for a month very near, I think,

      I was starving a'most for the lack of a drink.

      But at last to a comperimize we come,

      An' 'e said as my boots was right enough,

      An' I told 'im – arter I'd tasted some —

      As 'is beer wasn't really 'alf bad stuff;

      So we both shakes 'ands on the village green,

      An' we seed what a couple o' fools we'd been.

      But there wasn't no good come out o' the fight,

      An' we're both worse off than we was before;

      Tho' I sits in 'is private bar of a night,

      An' 'e gives me 'is shoes to mend once more;

      For Slade's lost 'is temper, an' eight bob clear,

      An' I'll never catch up wi' that three weeks' beer!

      Now if England quarrels with Roosia, say,

      Or them aggrannoying United States,

      She can tax their imports, an' make 'em pay

      More 'eavier dooties an' 'igher rates;

      But suppose as we taxes the goods they sell,

      It's likely as they'll tax ours as well.

      An' o' manufactured goods, an' such,

      We're sendin' three times as much as they;

      So I can't see as 'ow we'll be gaining much,

      With a three times 'eavier tax to pay.

      (It's a game as two can play, you see,

      An' they'll be a-suffering less than we!)

      For the balance o' goods as they sells to us

      Is the corn, an' the grain, an' the foods we eat;

      An' it's likely the working class 'll cuss

      If we levies a tax on the furrin wheat,

      Which 'll merely fall on the poor man's 'ead,

      By a-raising the price of 'is loaf o' bread.

      This Retaliation's a tom-fool game;

      If we taxes the furriner's barley 'ere,

      We shall only be 'aving ourselves to blame

      When we 'as to pay more for our dinner-beer!

      Free Food is the best for British Trade,

      – An' for you, an' for me, an' for 'Enery Slade!

      I've been 'earing, round the pubs,

      As the British Lion's cubs

      Is a gettin' out of 'and, and stubborn-'earted;

      For the Colonies, they say,

      Is a driftin' right away,

      From the Motherland wot seed 'em safely started.

      But it's only Little Englanders, Protectionists, an' such,

      Keeps a-'owling an' a-crying as the Empire's 'out o' touch.'

      There was Canada, I know;

      Kipling said as she 'ad snow,

      Which (o' course) was met with angry contradictions;

      Then Haustralia come next,

      An' one Guv'nor found a text

      To remind 'em of their ancestors' convictions.

      It's unfortunit, but still we must admit it for a fact,

      As we Englishmen is hev'rvwhere notorious for tact.

      But wotever folks may shout

      An' make grievances about,

      There's uncommon little grounds as they can go on;

      For the strength o' Hempire lies

      More in sentimental ties