THE BRIGAND'S DOOM.
Brief libretto for a Trades-Unionist Grand Opera written up to date.
The Scene represents a Country Mansion surrounded by its grounds. Members of the New Labour Electoral Association discovered hanging about in threatening attitudes. As the Curtain rises they sing the following Chorus:—
Chorus.
See us here, in jubilation,
A brand-new Association.
Still, the truth to tell, although
What we want we don't quite know.
We are bound the world to wake,
If sufficient noise we make.
Hail our programme then with bliss,
Which is, briefly stated, this:
No longer we'll trust representative nous,
But force for ourselves Parliamentary gates,
As Members we'll take our own seats in the House,
And have our expenses paid out of the rates.
A Local Ratepayer (andante).
Nay, nay! To take your seats, you're free,
But not, oh! not, to burthen me!
Enough am I already charged,
And would not see the sum enlarged,
Your pay,—that is your own affair;
I care not whence it emanates:
I only most distinctly swear,
You shall not get it from the rates.
Chorus (advancing on him threateningly).
Be still, and know that the whole nation,
Bows down to the Association!
[The Local Ratepayer cowers before them.
And yet this question of the land
We own we don't quite understand.
Is there no specialist who'll try
To make it clear?
Enter Mr. Joseph Arch. He bounds into their midst.
Mr. Joseph Arch.
Why here am I!
You want your intellect to march?
[They express assent.
Then listen all to Joseph Arch.
[They group themselves in attentive
positions gracefully about him.
Ballad.
A man may own jewels and gold,
A piano, horse, railway shares,
A cellar of wine, new or old,
A house, and the clothes that he wears.
Everything he may sell, or may buy,
That is purchased by wealth or by toil;
But he mustn't own—no matter why—
A single square yard of the soil.
He this who from Hodge, its true owner, perverts,
Is a brigand, and merits a brigand's deserts!
This park that around you you see,
These gardens you so much admire,
Each hedgerow, each copse, every tree,
Is the owner's bequeathed from his sire.
He may have remitted his rents!
What of that till the Nation cries "Quits!"
His land, with the march of events,
Being purloined and cut up into bits?
For until to its true owner, Hodge, it reverts,—
He's a brigand, and merits a brigand's deserts!
[At the conclusion of the ballad Mr. Joseph Arch gives a signal and the Owner of the Property is led on in the custody of Trade-Union Myrmidons.
Chorus.
Rob him! fleece him! gag him! seize him!
Drive him from his country place.
Of his right of tenure ease him;
Call him "Brigand" to his face!
Owner of the Property (recitative).
Oh, outrage horrible
And entirely unsatisfactory,
Thus to fasten with salutations
Eminently unpalatable
On the defenceless monied one of the County!
Know ye not that my venerated sire,
A Soap-boiler successful in his line of business
Beyond his wildest visions,
Purchased for eighty thousand pounds sterling,
These acres, as an investment
Speculative and commercial.
Say, then, is it reasonable that I,
His hopeful heir and offspring,
Should be defrauded of what,
At present prices agricultural,
Is but a return dim and disappointing
On his original outlay.
Why call me "Brigand"? Tell me why?
Mr. Joseph Arch (con fuoco).
Your father had no right to buy,
And, as the land to Hodge is due,
We take it thus by force from you!
A Crowd of Radical Land Reformers rush in, and seizing on the property, hew down the timber, cut away the brushwood, and parcel it out into small allotments.
Owner of the Property (con animo).
And is there for no compensation room?
Mr. Joseph Arch.
No! none! And now, behold the Brigand's doom!
[Points triumphantly to the work at the back, while he waves the draft of a new Act of Parliament over the prostrate form of the Owner of the Property, as the Curtain slowly descends.
