We'll keep the Red Flag flying here."
Well, I have set myself to supply some of the other parties with songs, and I have begun with "The White Spat," which is to be the party-hymn of the High Tories (if any). I have written it to the same tune as "The Red Flag," because, when the lion finally does lie down with the lamb, it will be much more convenient if they can bleat and roar in the same metre, and I shall hope to hear Mr. Robert Williams and Lord Robert Cecil singing these two songs at once one day. I am not wholly satisfied with "The White Spat," but I think I have caught the true spirit, or, at any rate, the proper inconsequence of these things:—
The White Spat
Air—Maryland.
The spats we wear are pure as snow—
We are so careful where we go;
We don't go near the vulgar bus
Because it always splashes us.
Chorus.
We take the road with trustful hearts,