They tell me the Millennium’ s come ( And I should be extremely glad Could I but feel assured, like some, It had ):
They tell me of a bright To Be When, freed from chains that tyrants forge By the Right Honourable D. Lloyd George,
We shall by penalties persuade The idle unrepentant Great To serve ( inadequately paid ) The State,—
All working for the general good, While painful guillotines confront The individual who could And won’ t:
But horny-handed sons of toil, Who now purvey our meats and drinks, Our gardens devastate, and spoil Our sinks,
Shall seldom condescend to take That inconsiderable sum For which they daily butch, and bake, And plumb;
Such humble votaries of trade No more shall follow arts like these; Since most of them will then be made M. P. s!
And can I then ( with some surprise You ask ) possess my tranquil soul, And view with calm indifferent eyes The Poll,
While partisans, in raucous tones, With doleful wail or joyful shout Proclaim that Brown is in, or Jones Is out?
I can: I do: the reason’ s plain: That blissful day which prophets paint Perhaps may come: perhaps again It mayn’ t:
And ere these ages blest begin ( For Rome, I’ ve heard historians say, Was only partly finished in A day )
In men of sentiments sublime ’ Tis possible we yet may trace The influence of mellowing Time And PLACE:—
O who can tell? Ere Labour rouse Its ever-multiplying hordes To mend or end th’ obstructive House Of Lords,
And bid aristocrats begone, And their hereditary pelf Bestow with generous hand upon Itself —
Why, Mr. George,— his threats forgot Which Earls and Viscounts cowering hear,— Himself may be, as like as not, A Peer!
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