CIVIL WAR;
Or, Some Words about Carter.
Not always for the noblest martyr,
My countrymen, ye forge
The crown of gold nor wreathe the laurel;
One protestant ye count as moral,
Neglect another. Take the quarrel
Extant between myself and Carter
(Henchman of D. Lloyd George).
I see the Unionists grow oranger,
I mark the wigs upon the green,
The rooted hairs of Ulster bristle
And all men talk of Carson's gristle,
Then why should this absurd epistle,
Put down beside my little porringer,
Provoke not England's spleen?
Did Hampden positively jeopardise
His life, and did the axe
Extinguish Charles's hopes of boodle
And all the wrongs of bad days feudal
For this—that Carter, the old noodle,
With t's all crossed and dot-bepeppered i's,
Should change my income-tax?
Thank heaven that one heart in Albion
Retains its oaken core;
Alone I can withstand my duty,
And so my answer to this beauty
Is simply "Rats!" and "Rooti-tooti!
My toll for this year must and shall be on
The sums declared before."
If not—if all things go by jobbery
And tape dyed red with sin,
Come, let him make a small collusion
And, when he writes his next effusion,
Grant me, we'll say, six years' exclusion
From re-assessments of his robbery.
And then—I may come in.
But, if the fiend still stays importunate,
My blood is up. Ad lib.,
Till at the door the bailiff rattles
And rude men reave me of my chattels,
I shall prolong these wordy battles,
And may the just cause prove the fortunate;
Phœbus defend my nib!
So long as gray goose yields a pinion,
So long as ink is damp,
Mine to resist the loathly fetters
Of D. Lloyd George and his abettors,
Posting innumerable letters
To Carter (D. Lloyd George's minion),
Minus the penny stamp.
Evoe.
From The Birmingham Daily Mail's report of a fire:—
"The night-watchman was aroused."
A shame to disturb the poor fellow's sleep.
Squire. "Well, Matthew, and how are you now?"
Convalescent. "Thankee, Sir, I be better than I were, but I beant as well as I were afore I was as bad as I be now."