I likes my glass of‘ arf-an’ - ‘ arf, Nor need n't make no bones about it; But still I ai n't the bloke to chaff Them fellers as can do without it;
I pities‘ em, but I respex Toteetallers o’ heither sex. I used to be the same myself, Would never touch a thing but water,
Nor‘ ave no bottles on my shelf Containin’ wot they did n't oughter. ( O’ water now I‘ ates the sight, Except to wash in, Sunday night ).
An’ wot cured me o’ temperance Was neither tracts nor indigestion, But simply that I read, by chance, Some dry statistics on the question,
Which proved to me, beyond a doubt, That lamps as was n't oiled went out! In them dark moments o’ the war — Of Nineteen‘ Undred now I'm writing —
My country raised a mounted corps, As seed a deal o’ gallant fighting; An’ nigh a third of all that lot Was touched by fever, shell or shot.
Of the toteetallers as went, Wot boasted o’ their sober‘ abits, As much as thirty-five per cent. Took fever bad, an’ died like rabbits;
While, out o’ them as liquored free, We did n't lose but twenty-three! When them statistics first I‘ eard, Nobody could‘ a hacted quicker;
I‘ urried to the‘ George the Third,’ An’ simply dosed myself wi’ liquor. ( Since then a many‘ armless orgies I've‘ ad wi’ them there Royal Georges. )
An’ only yesterday I‘ ears The state o’ things as‘ ad existed: O’ them toteetal volunteers There was n't only three enlisted!
When one fell sick, an’ orf‘ e went, ‘ E made that Thirty-five per cent.! Yes, figures proves you hanythink, To suit your private way o’ thinking,
They proves the blessedness o’ drink, Or else they proves the curse o’ drinking; An’, if you manages‘ em right, They proves a'most that black is white!
They proves that British Industries Is being ruined by the‘ dumper’; They proves this year ( as ever is ) To be wot people calls a‘ bumper.’
An’ when on exports they begin, Lor! wot a muddle they gets in! They proves as‘ ow the iron trade Is prosperous ( or else declining );
That more ( or less ) was never made By them as is engaged in mining. ( We gets a varied mental meal Served up to us on plates o’ steel! )
They proves, without the slightest doubt, Our manufacturies is growin’; They proves we're being quite cut out, Or else that our‘ ome trade's a-goin’.
( In which, per'aps, they ai n't so wrong — It is a-goin’, goin’ strong! ) But there's some undisputed fac's — An’ even figures wo n't gainsay it:
One is, if you puts on a tax, Someone or other‘ as to pay it. (‘ We'll tax the poor man's corn,’ says Joe; ‘ But touch‘ is bread? Oh dear me, no!’ )
If England needs our pounds an’ pence, An’ taxes of our food to raise‘ em, It do n't require much common-sense To see as the consumer pays‘ em;
The thing I'm anxious for to learn Is wot does‘ e get in return? When prices they goes up a bit, The rich exchequer of the nation
Is bound in honour to remit Somethink by way o’ compensation. ( Tho’, all the same, I'd like to see The bloke as talks of tea to me! )
An’ that's a ticklish game to win; We'll stay exactly where we are if Them blooming furrin goods comes in, In spite of our protective tariff!
‘ Ha! but we'll keep‘ em out,’ sez you. Then where's our promised revenoo? If that's the price as must be paid To forward Joe's Imperial mission;
If we must bolster up our trade, An’ not allow no competition, By taxing them as‘ as to buy, ‘ Gawd‘ elp our British trade!’ sez I.
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