HARK! the Lambeth Guardians sing:
Glory to the new-born King;
Glory to the gun and sword
That will teach the German horde
In a way they’ll not forget.
England still is England yet.
We are also sons of Drake
Who would strike for England’ssake;
We shall help to win the day
In our more prosaic way.
None, we know, would dare suggest
That we have not done our best
In the past to educate
Babes who sponge upon the State,
To promote their civic sense
And save the ratepayers expense.
Should this education cease
With the piping times of peace ?
No ; and we know how to teach them
In a way we hope will reach them,
Eggs have been upon occasion
Instruments of moral suasion.
We have brought from Scandinavia
For the birthday of the Saviour,
Eggs which taught our infant folk
To detest the foreign yolk;
Eggs which would, we felt, remind them
They must take things as they find them,
And that little pauper hearts
Are not even good in parts.
This regime, we think, suffices
For the children’s normal vices ;
But the want of public spirit
What return does this not merit ?
Loudly we in concert call
They should have no eggs at all ;
Dock their food, and when they’re starvin’
They’ll perhaps attend to Garvin.
Eggs is eggs, and eggs is dear,
They shall have no eggs this year!
. . . . .
Guardians mine, so far so good
This adjustment in the food ;
But, my Guardians, why, I beg,
Go no further than an egg?
If you’d have them not ignore
All the grave effects of war,
Sell their beds and let them freeze
Like the Belgian refugees ;
Go the whole instructive hog,
Shell the workhouse, burn and flog.
Flog a few and shoot a few
You will surely, if you do,
Rouse them from their lethargy.
Though the weaker ones may cry
For dead fathers and dead mothers
They will realize that others’
Situation Is much worse,
And agree that war’s a curse,
And imbibe a novel zeal
For their native commonweal.
Thus when they with clearer eyes
Are persuaded to despise
Luxury, and cease to treasure
A vain and empty life of pleasure,
Duly chastened they will sing;
“Glory to the new-born King !
I am sorry, Jesus dear,
I don’t deserve an egg this year
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
And Christ forgive a workhouse child”
. . . . .
Then, my Guardians? you will go
Home to Alexandra Row,
Chatsworth Terrace or “St. Ann’s”
” River View” “The Den” “The Manse”
Justly proud of what you’ve done
To repel the hated Hun,
Hoping that it will afford
Satisfaction to the Board ;
And round your Christmas table heavy
With thing’s (thank God, we’ve got a Navy !)
You will talk about the War
And eat and eat until you snore.
(John Collings Squire)
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Based on Topics: God Poems, War & Peace Poems, Kings & Queens Poems, Hope Poems, Success Poems, Money & Wealth Poems, Past Poems, Jesus Christ Poems, Children Poems, Pleasure Poems, Hatred PoemsBased on Keywords: educate, workhouse, prosaic, yolk, manse, starvin, adjustment, lambeth, regime, alexandra, scandinavia