'ARRY ON EQUALITY.
Dear Charlie,—Bin down as a dab with that dashed heppydemick, dear boy.
I 'ave bloomin' nigh sneezed my poor head orf. You know that there specie of toy
Wot they call cup-and-ball! That's me, Charlie! My back seemed to open and shut,
As the grippe-demon danced on my innards, and played pitch-and-toss with my nut.
Hinfluenza be blowed! It licks hague and cholera rolled into one.
The Sawbones have give it that name, I'm aware, but of course that's their fun.
I've 'ad colds in the head by the hunderd, but this weren't no cold, leastways mine.
Howsomever, I'm jest coming round a bit, thanks to warm slops and QyNine.
Took to reading, I did as I mended; that's mostly a practice with me.
When I'm down on my back that's the time for a turn at my dear old D. T.
A party named Robert Buchanan, as always appears on the job,
Was a slating a chappie called Huxley. Thinks I, I'll take stock of friend Bob.
Well, he ain't much account, that's a moral; a ramblinger Rad never wos.
Old Huxley's wuth ten on him, Charlie, though he's rather huppish and poz.
Are men really born free and equal? Ah! that's wot they're harguing hout.
Bob B., he says "Yus;" Huxley, "No;" and Bob's wrong, there's no manner of doubt.
"Free and equal?" Oh, Nebuchadnezzar! how can they talk sech tommy-rot?
Might as well say as Fiz and Four-Arf should be equally fourpence a pot.
Nice hidea, but taint so, that's the wust on it. There's where these dreamers go wrong.
Ought's nothink, and that as is, is; all the rest isn't wuth a old Song.
Bad as Buggins, the Radical Cobbler, these mugs are. Sez Buggins, sez he,
Wos it Nature give Mudford his millions, and three bob a day to poor me?
Not a bit on it. Nature's a mother, and meant all her gifts for us all.
It's a Law as gives Mudford his Castle, and leaves me a poor Cobbler's Stall.
All I've got to say, Charlie, is this. If so be Nature meant all that there,
She must be a fair "J." as a mater. I've bin bested out of my share.
So has Buggins, and nine out o' ten on us. If the few nobble the quids
Spite of Nature, wy Nature's a noodle as cannot purtect her own kids.
Poor Buggins! He's nuts upon Henery George, William Morris, and such.
He's got a white face, and is humpy, and lives in a sort of a hutch
Smellin' strong of wax-end and stale dubbin. Him born free and equal? Great Scott!
'Bout as free as a trained flea in harness, or sueties piled in a pot.
Nature's nothink, dear boy, simply nothink, and natural right don't exist,
Unless it means natural flyness, or natural power of fist.
It's brains and big biceps, wot wins. Is men equal in muscle and pith?
Arsk Bismarck and Derby, dear boy, or arsk Jackson the Black and Jem Smith.
There'd be precious few larks if they wos, Charlie—where'd be the chance of a spree
If every pious old pump or young mug was the equal of Me?
It's the up-and-down bizness of life, mate, as makes it such fun—for the ups.
Equal? Yus, as old Barnum and Buggins, or tigers and tarrier pups.
He's a long-winded lot, is Buchanan, slops over tremenjous, he do;
Kinder poet, dear boy, I believe, and they always do flop round a few,
Make a rare lot o' splash and no progress, like ducks in a tub, dontcher know,
But cackle and splutter ain't swimming; so Robert, my nabs, it's no go.
Men ain't equal a mite, that's a moral, and patter won't level 'em up.
Wy yer might as well talk of a popgun a holding its own with a Krupp.
'Ow the brains and the ochre got fust ladled hout is a bit beyond me,
But to fancy as them as has got 'em will part is dashed fiddle-de-dee.
Normans nicked? Landlords copped? Lawyers fiddled? Quite likely; I dessay they did.
Are they going to hand back the swag arter years? Not a hacre or quid!
Finding's keeping, and 'olding means 'aving. I wish I'd a spanking estate
Wot my hancestors nailed on the ready. They wouldn't wipe me orf the slate.
No fear, Charlie, my boy! I'd hang on by my eyelids; and so will the nobs,
Despite Mounseer Roosso's palaver or rattletrap rubbish like Bob's.
As Huxley sez, Robbery's whitewashed by centries of toffdom, dear boy.
Poor pilgarlicks whose forbears wos honest rich perks earn't expect to enjoy.
Life's a great game of grab, fur's I see, Charlie. Robbery? Well, call it that.
If you only lay hands on your own, mate, you won't git remarkable fat.
There isn't enough to go round and yet give a fair dollop to each,
It's a fight for front place, and he's lucky who gets the first bite at the peach.
High priori hideas about Justice, as Huxley declares, is all rot.
Fancy tigers dividing a carcase, and portioning each his fair lot!
"Aren't men better than tigers?" cries Buggins. Well, yus, there's religion and law;
Pooty fakes! But when sharing's the word they ain't in it with sheer tooth and claw.
Orful nice to see Science confirming wot I always held. Blow me tight,
If I don't rayther cotton to Huxley; he's racy, old pal, and he's right.
The skim-milk of life's for the many, the lardy few lap up the cream,
And all talk about trimming the balance is rubbish, a mere Roosso's Dream!
Philanterpy's all very nice as a plaything for soft-'arted toffs,
Kep in bounds it don't do no great 'arm. Poor old Buggins, he flushes and coughs;
Gets hangry, he do, at my talk. I sez, keep on your hair, my good bloke,
Hindignation ain't good for your chest; cut this Sosherlist cant, or you'll choke.
Philanterpy squared in a system would play up Old Nick with the Great,
As 'cute Bishop Magee sez Religion would do—carried out—with the State.
Oh, when Science and Saintship shake hands, in a sperret of sound common sense,
To chuck over the cant of the Pulpit, by Jingo, old pal, it's Himmense!
All cop and no blue ain't my motter; I likes to stand treat to a chum;
And if I wos flush of the ochre, I tell yer I'd make the thing hum.
And there's lots o' the rich is good parters; bit here and bit there, dontcher know;
But shake up the Bag and share round, like good pals a pot-lucking? Oh no!
Wot these jokers call Justice means knocking all 'andicap out of life's race;
"Equal chances all round," they declare, wouldn't give equal power and pace!
Wy, no; but if things weren't made nice for the few with the power and the tin,
The 'andicapped many would be in the 'unt, and some on 'em might win.
Pooty nice state o' things for the perkers! Luck, Law, and the Longheads, dear boy,
Have arranged the world so that the many must work that the few may enjoy.
These "Equality" jossers would spile it; if arf their reforms they can carry,
The enjoyers will 'ave a rough time, and there won't be a look in for 'Arry.