Well, I have set myself to supply some 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, Avoiding all the messy parts; However dirty you may get We’ll keep the White Spat spotless yet. At night there shines a special star To show us where the puddles are; The crossing-sweeper sweeps the floor-- That’s what the crossing-sweeper’s for. _Chorus._ Then take the road, etc., etc. I know it doesn’t look much, just written down on paper; but you try singing it and you’ll find you’re carried away. Of course there ought to be an international verse, but I’m afraid I can’t compete with the one in my model:-- “Look round: the Frenchman loves its blaze, The sturdy German chants its praise; In Moscow’s vaults its hymns are sung; Chicago swells the surging throng.” “From Russia’s snows to Afric’s sun The race of spatriots is one; One faith unites their alien blood-- There’s nothing to be said for mud.” Now we have the song of the Wee Frees. I wanted this to be rather pathetic, but I’m not sure that I haven’t overdone it. The symbolism, though, is well-nigh perfect, and, after all, the symbolism is the chief thing. This goes to the tune of “Annie Laurie”:-- THE OLD BLACK BROLLY. Air--_Annie Laurie_ Under the Old Umbrella, Beneath the leaking gamp, Wrapped up in woolly phrases We battle with the damp. Come, gather round the gamp! Observe, it is pre-war; And beneath the old Black Brolly There’s room for several more. Shameless calumniators Calumniate like mad; Detractors keep detracting; It really is too bad; It really is too bad. To show we’re not quite dead, We wave the old Black Brolly And hit them on the head.