SOCIALISM.—"NEW HARMONY."
Oh, Socialism is a pretty thing
For bards to sing:
And Harmony's a title worth some guineas,
To take in ninnies;
And make them fancy that a place which revels
In such a name as "Harmony," must be
A spot where men like angels all agree,
Instead of quarrelling, as they do, like devils.
The harmony of such a place
Is thorough base!
They've everything in common, so they say;
Even not uncommon wives: perchance they may;
And, if the principle they carry through,
The babies may be sometimes common, too;
Making it puzzling, rather,
For some of them to find their father.
Of goods there is community,
Leading, of course, to unity;
If four-and-twenty Socialists require,
At the same time, the kitchen fire,
A chop to fry,
Who shall to any one the right deny?
For Owen says that every man,
In his community, shall use the frying-pan,
Just when and where, and how he may require.
So brotherly love
Permits him to shove
All who impede him, from (or into, perhaps) the fire
And then, how very strange
Their labour they exchange!
The cobbler who would like a dish
Of fish,
Goes to the fishmonger and heels a shoe,
Then carries off a sole or two.
The lawyer wants a coat—a decent fit;
To pay the tailor's bill
He need but make the tailor's will,
Or serve him with the copy of a writ.
NEW HARMONY—All Owin'—No payin'.
A comic singer wants a brilliant ring!
He takes it, and begins to sing
A comic song,
Proportionably long;
And when of stanzas there are quantum suff.,
Of his own labour he's exchanged enough;
Thus, by a due exertion of his wits,
He with the jeweller may soon cry quits.
"'Tis true, 'tis pity; pity 'tis 'tis true,"
That when the Socialists their plans endeavour
To put in force, although successful never,
Yet, in one sense, they of it make "a do:"
Their landlord they would gladly pay,
If he, to take his rent,
In labour were content:
But as he wont do that, they run away.
It is a sect, I vow,
That's much run after now;
And Socialists are followed more
Than ever they had been before.
It's rather funny
That they who rail at cash as worst of human curses,
Should, out of other people's purses,
Take so much money.
Some think that honesty requires
All to their means should limit their desires;
But Socialism rather leans
To measuring its wants by other people's means.
Brotherly love may be all very well in its way,
But one would rather avoid its display,
When the warmth of affection
Is shown in a predilection
(To Socialists often known)
Of treating other folk's goods as their own.
But now we bid adieu to Mr. Owen,
Who very long the game had carried on;
Three times he set it—"going, going, going,"
And, like himself, knock'd down at last—'tis gone!
