Ye Mariners of England! Who’d guard our native seas, What think ye, lads, every few years Of this confounded breeze? They tell us we must launch more ships Ere we may match the foe, And weep O’er the deep, Whilst the Pressmen’s trumpets blow, While the squabble rages loud and long, And the Pressmen’s trumpets blow. The spirits of your fathers Would look extremely grave At doubts thus thrown upon the fact That Britain rules the wave. Officials on each other fall; One “Yes!” says, t’other “No!” And sweep O’er the deep, Of big figures in a row, Tabled Statistics stiff and long, And figures in a row. Britannia needs a Navy Her world-wide watch to keep, To ward her isle-encircling waves, And to patrol the deep. _That’s_ truth, and far beyond all joke, Plain facts from them we’d know, Who roar And deplore, That our Navy’s running low, That the Frank and Teuton fleets grow strong, Whilst our Navy’s running low. The money-bags of England The balance yet can turn. We’re quite prepared to freely “part,” Cheese-paring fudge we’d spurn. Facts, facts, ye ocean-warriors, Are what we fain would know! For the fame Of your name Every British heart will glow, When Party fights are heard no more And the Windbags cease to “blow.” _Punch_, October 4, 1884. ―――― YE RADICALS OF BRUMM’GEM. (A Song for the next Election.) Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem, With all your Caucuses, Whose noise has rung a year or two Just on a passing breeze, Your voice shall ne’er be raised again To deafen another foe; You shall fall, spouters all, When our party strikes the blow, And the battle will be short, I say, When our party strikes the blow! The demagogues and stumpers No more shall rant and rave, The platform was their field of fame, Th’ election is their grave. Where Bunkum, Humbug, Bluster spoke, Now silence you shall know, For you fall, stumpers all, When our party strikes the blow, And the battle will be short indeed When our party strikes the blow. Britannia’ll have no rebels Her soil in blood to steep; Her strength can crush the blustering knave―― Her wit the sly and deep; And class with class she reconciles And fuses high and low―― They unite for the fight And together strike the blow, And they make the battle short, I say, When, allied, they strike the blow.