See, the battle-flags are flying freely as on War's red field.
And the rival hosts are lugging, straining—neither means to yield.
For the war-drums, are they silent? Nay—they're not of parchment now,
But, with printers' ink and paper, you can raise a loud tow-row;
Be it at a Labour Congress, Masters' Meeting, Club, or Pub,
Public tympana are deafened with their ceaseless rub-a-dub!
Tug of War! It is a Tug, and not, alas! mere friendly war,
As when rival muscles tussle, Highland lad or British tar,
'Tis a furious fight à outrance, knitted, knotted each to each,
Heels firm-planted, hands tense-clenching, till the knobby knuckles bleach.