And let its notes once more, in refluent stanzas,
Dower the Income-tax with glad Bonanzas.”
So she; and—since I loathe to disappoint
The least illusion of the equal sex—
Let Byron’s oil once more these locks anoint,
Once more let honour meet these Cox-drawn cheques ...
Though well I know that times are spare of joint,
And satire’s song less like to please than vex;
Now small beer, Smallwood, raids and strikes and rations,
Have near eclipsed the gaiety of nations: