Our labourers need no dainties, But something strong and cheap; No steak from off the rump they crave, No chop from off the sheep: With curry powder thrice a week, Warm into bed they’ll stow, Nor ever roar out for more―― Their place so well they know; But when hunger rages fierce and strong, To the curry powder go. The ’tato crops of England May all to gangrene turn, While Norfolk’s Duke about your lot His wise head shall concern. Meanwhile, ye hardy labourers, Your song of thanks should flow To the fame of his name Who the powder made you know: Which, when hunger rages fierce and strong, Will set you in glow. _Punch_, January, 1845. ―――― ODE TO THE “SPECIALS.” Ye Constables of London, That guard our Cockney plain, Whose staves have braved for several hours The Chartists and the rain, To Clerkenwell come forth once more To meet your ancient foe, And go then at the men Who never struck a blow At the men who spout so loud and long, But never strike a blow! Our London needs no barriers, No forts along the street; Her faith is in her Specials’ staves, Her trust is in their feats! With their truncheons of old oak They fright the Chartists so, That they roar all the more, But they never strike a blow! Yes, although they spout so loud and long, They never strike a blow. The maniac mob of England Shall yet some reason learn, Till humbug’s dreary night depart, And the star of sense return! Then, then, ye cockney warriors, Our half and half shall flow To the fame of your name, And every one shall know Of your prowess ’gainst the noisy mob Who never struck a blow. _The Puppet Show_, June 10, 1848. (Written at the time of the Chartist movement, when the late Emperor Napoleon III, was sworn in as a special Constable.) ―――― YE SHIP BUILDERS OF ENGLAND. Ye Ship builders of England, That load our native seas With craft not fit to brave a year The battle or the breeze: Such rubbish do not launch again, Top heavy, dull, and slow As they creep through the deep Whatever wind may blow. The spirits of retrenchment Shall start from every wave, For in the sea economy Through you has found a grave. Thousands and thousands you have sunk In ships that will not go; For they creep through the deep Whatever wind may blow.