And now you say it's the same, what with Afghanistan and Zulu, And that darned American weather come over to bother you too; 'There won't be very much left me, if this sort of thing goes on; And this is a time of peace--of peace with honour!' says John. 'And all trade seems half dead, and the farmers can't pay their rent, While the landlords are only too happy to give them back twenty per cent. Farmers!--and pay no rent? Well, the rent perhaps could be borne, But giving back twenty per cent. won't make up for American corn. To be sure, Lord Beaconsfield says that we're an Imperial race, And an unscientific frontier is really a sort of disgrace; And Stafford and Holker--I hear them too--their voices are sweet, But they can't very well expect _me_ to get fat on American meat. And to tell you the good plain truth, I never can quite understand What it is Lord Beaconsfield means, or what he's got in his hand; He conjures eggs out of his hat, he keeps fireworks under his bed, I really am not always certain he's not going to stand on his head. And the Liberals make it their text as they go to the hustings, no doubt! Even those who do nothing in office understand what to promise when out; There wouldn't be waste any more--not enough to make meat for a mouse-- If Gladstone was at the Exchequer, and Hartington leading the House. Pattering upon the platform--they'll all be pattering soon, When Beaconsfield makes up his mind to dissolve them some fine afternoon, I seem to be sick of it all--I know every word they'll say, And perhaps it will come even sooner, for some are beginning to-day. So this is a time of peace--of peace with honour, you know; And empty have grown my pockets--they never used to be so; At least, not often, I think. I never was one to boast, But I seem to be sick of it all--and of empty pockets the most.' Prize parody from _The World_, November 19, 1879. * * * * * The second prize parody on the same topic commenced thus:-- BREAD has gone up again. Was that what you said to me, child? Bread and coals gone up, and the weather wet and wild; Bread gone up again, and cold and hunger severe; An' me not knowing which way to turn, an' you but a child, my dear. Don't look at me that way, Mary, with eyes that plead for bread-- O Lord, I could bear it well enough, if it only fell on my head! But the child so weak and sickly, and me but an old man now, Asking no better, though, Lord knows, than to work in the sweat of my brow. But work is not to be had, though I seek it from morning till night: Not to be had by me; there are men who are younger, a sight; Younger and stronger, too, who take what is to he had; And bread has gone up and cold is sharp, and times is very bad.