THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
New Parish-Council Version.
(By a Landlord and Lover of the Good Old Times.)
[At Merton, Surrey, where Mr. William Morris has his factory, a blacksmith was highest of the fifteen successful candidates for the Parish Council, the vicar being eighth.]
Over the vicar, top o' the tree,
The Village Blacksmith stands;
The smith a mighty man is he,
With power in his strong hands;
And his victory well may stir alarms
In Squire-Parsonic bands.
The Squire looks black, his face is long,—
"Vicar not in the van?
Oh! things are going to the doose
As fast as e'er they can!
The blacksmith with his grimy face
Has proved to be best man.
"Week in, week out, he'll spout and fight!
We shall hear him bluff and blow.
He'll vote the good old times all wrong,
The good old fashions slow;
And won't he run the rates right up,
And keep tithe-charges low?
"He'll have his finger in the School,
He'll open wide its door;
He'll keep the Voluntaries starved,
And let the School-Board score.
And he'll want baths and washhouses
And villas for the poor!
"Then he may 'go for' the Old Church,
And rouse the village boys
To listen, not to Parson's drone,
But Agitation's voice,
And 'stead o' singing in the choir
He'll swell Rad ranters' noise.
"'Twill sound to him like Wisdom's voice,
Preaching of Paradise,
As though the thing were at his door;
Plumbed with Progressive lies,
He'll think his hard, rough hand will wipe
The Squire's and Parson's eyes.
"Broiling—orating—borrowing,
Swelling the rates, he goes.
Reform's raw task he will begin,
But who shall see it close?
Church will be robbed, and Land be sold.
Farewell old-time repose!
"'Tis thanks to you, my loud Rad friends,
These lessons you have taught!
By folly from the flaming forge
Our fortunes must be wrought.
And won't there be a blessed mess
Before the fight is fought!"
