"LYING LOW."
["The Chancellor of the Exchequer has preserved, with admirable composure, an oracular silence during the controversies of the past few weeks. It is sad to think that the despairing appeals of the Ministerial Press to Sir William Harcourt to 'remember his swashing blow' may remain unanswered until the opening of the debate on the Address some two months hence."—The Times.]
"Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.
Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the haycock, fast asleep(?)"
Old Nursery Rhyme.
Much worrited Old Liberal Party loquitur:—
O little Boy Blue!—('tis a sweet name for you,
Though Pickwickian, perhaps, in suggestiveness!)—
What are you a-doing? There's mischief a-brewing,
Our flocks appear troubled with restiveness;
Our cattle are straying. You ought to be playing
That horn with your old force and unction.
Of what are you thinking? In long forty-winking
Boy Blue seems forgetting his function!
You're not worth a button! That Forfarshire mutton
The Unionist meadow is munching in;
Our bonny Brigg cow, boy, now can't you see how, boy,
The Tory corn-field she is crunching in?
You are losing your sheep, like poor little Bo-Peep,
And still that old horn lies unblown, boy.
You're letting them roam, and they will not "come home"
If you do nought but "let them alone," boy!
Still drowsing! Oh, drat it! Young Primrose is at it
Without half your power of bellows.
And cynics are hinting that, while he is sprinting,
You're lazy—because you feel jealous.
Of course, that's all footle. Still, your rootle-tootle
Is wanted our courage to toughen.
'Twas never your habit, like artful Brer Rabbit,
Of old to "lie low and say nuffin'!"
Your horn, like great Roland's, through high lands and low lands,
From Lincoln to Scotland, should blare up.
We need its loud rallies, or our Roncesvallês
Will come,—when there will be a flare-up!
'Tis surely not rifted? When Roland uplifted
His Olifant, everyone heard it
For thirty miles round. So your sheep-horn should sound,
And too long, my Boy Blue, you've deferred it.
Their noses foes may cock, whilst under that haycock
At Malwood at ease you're reclining.
Poor Primrose, our shepherd, is getting will peppered,
The flock for your rally are pining.
You are only Boy Blue, not the shepherd? That's true;
Still, horn-blowing boys have their duty.
Wake up, and wake now, Sir, and give us a rouser.
Your best blast, we know, is a beauty!
Our fold's getting thinnish, our flocks fast diminish,
Our milch-cows are sickening or straying.
Up! back up the pastor, or there'll be disaster.
The enemy's sheep-horns are braying;
They're "calling the cattle home." Rouse, with a rattle-home!
Asleep? Well, perhaps you're "purtending"!
But though one may easily play up too weaselly,
Sheep do demand watchful tending.
"LYING LOW."
"LITTLE BOY BLUE, COME BLOW UP YOUR HORN
THE SHEEP'S IN THE MEADOW, THE COW'S IN THE CORN.
WHERE IS THE BOY WHO LOOKS AFTER THE SHEEP?
HE'S UNDER THE HAYCOCK, FAST ASLEEP (?)"