MICHAELMAS AND THE GOOSE.
(Lines written under the threat of a Coal-strike).
You for whose Mass by immemorial use,
When Autumn enters on his annual cycle,
We offer up the fatted goose
Mid fragrant steam of apple-juice,
Hear our appeal, O Michael!
Sir, do not try our piety too sore,
Bidding us sacrifice—a wrench how cruel!—
Her whom we prize all geese before—
The one that lays that precious ore,
Our priceless daily fuel.
Her output, as it is, shows want of will
To check the slackness growing rife and rifer;
And it would fall far lower still
(Being, indeed, reduced to nil)
If they should go and knife her.
Yet there are men who press the slaughterers' claim
In sympathetic language, talking loosely;
Among them Mr. Gosling—shame
That anyone with such a name
Should cackle so ungoosely!
Not in your honour would that bird be slain
If they should kill her—and the hour is critical—
But for their own ends, thus to gain
An object palpably profane
(That is to say, political).
Defend her, Michael! you who smote the crew
Of Satan on the jaw and stopped their bluffing;
So, if you see her safely through,
We'll give you thrice your usual due
Of other geese (with stuffing).
O.S.