On Saturdays I often goes An’ spends a evenin’ in the pit At one of them vari'ty shows, An’ makes a‘ appy night of it;
But since this fiscal row begun, I've‘ ad to look elsewheres for fun. I'm partial to a music -‘ all, But when last week I chanced to go,
I‘ eard some low-necked blighter bawl A Jingo song in praise o’ Joe; ‘ No more will England,’ sez this crank, ‘ Trade with the German an’ the Yank!’
At furrin countries, o'er the sea, A lot o’ silly jeers‘ e‘ urled; Thinks I, where would ole England be Without the market o’ the world?
We'd make a living, I suppose, A washin’ of each other's clo's! Nex’ come the cinematograph, An’ Joe, I need n't say, was there;
A picture of‘ is upper‘ alf, A-settin’ smilin’ in a chair. ( There's no photographer in town Would dare to‘ take‘ im lying down!’ )
Then a play-actress come along, A saucy bunnet on‘ er‘ ead; She did n't sing no fiscal song, She spoke a fiscal pome instead.
‘ These is,’ she‘ astened to explain, ‘ The words o’ Joseph Chamberlain!’ I‘ eard that Yankee lady's rhyme, An’ then I took my coat an’‘ at;
I've read some drivel in my time, But nothink quite so bad as that. ( She was a Himport, I suppose, Dumped down by foes o’ poor ole Joe's! )
I took the kids to Drury Lane, An’‘ eard a lion comic sing A song as told us once again To keep‘ Protecting’ hev'rything.
Thinks I,‘ ullo! but if that's so, Ca n't we protect ourselves from Joe? I ai n't bad-tempered,‘ Eaven knows; A peaceful life is wot I'd choose;
If people likes this scheme o’ Joe's, They're more than welcome to their views; They loves dear food, I've not a doubt, An’ any'ow that's their look-out.
But when I seeks the gall'ry door At one of them there public shows, I does n't pay a bob or more To‘ ear about this plan o’ Joe's;
I simply wants to get away From controversies of the day. We‘ as enough o’ argument At‘ ome, on‘ bus-top, tube, or train;
An’ most on us‘ ll be content If‘ entertainments’ entertain; But Joe's as bad as the perlice, ‘ E wo n't give no one any peace.
An’ seems to me, as plain as day, It's actors’ business to amuse; If they can n't no'ow keep away From giving us their fiscal views,
Why should the public be denied A chance to‘ ear the other side? I‘ opes it wo n't be very long Afore George Robey lets us‘ ear
A really fust-class fiscal song Wrote by the Dook o’ Devonsheer; While on the biograph we sees Them comic cuts o’ F. C. G.' s.
If Ruddy Kipling would but write A Free Trade ballad, or a glee, Which Arthur Roberts could recite, Or Dunville sing with Mr. Tree,
I'd pay my money at the door, Nor would n't ask for nothin’ more. But while the music -‘ alls descend To nothing but Protection‘ turns,’
There's other better ways to spend The little money that I earns. I only asks to see fair-play, An’, failin’ that, I'll stop away.
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