And Capital wrangles with Labour, each hating the other like snakes; And the Foreigner creeps in and up, and the Board Agent comes and he takes Our boys, and he crams 'em with kibosh as makes 'em too big for their breeches; But real true bread-winning knowledge--the stuff that the Bench only teaches-- They don't find set down in their books, with their 'isms and 'ometries--no; But the nipper's turned out in the world, and then what shall he turn to?--where go? Cheap clerking, or rule-of-thumb drudgery, bands, and black flags, and that rot? They may give it what fine names they like, but it simply means going to pot! And the swells snarl and sneer, and the bobbies are bid to be sharp with their staves, And the dupes who get all the cracked heads are informed if they don't they'll be slaves. [Illustration: THE SCHOOLMASTER OF THE FUTURE. (_And the sooner we get him the better._) BRITISH WORKMAN: "BOTHER YOUR 'OLOGIES AND 'OMETRIES, LET _ME_ TEACH HIM SOMETHING USEFUL!"] Seems to me all a muddle all round. Half the Masters are grinders and grabs, And the men, when not cynical churls, are too apt to be shirkers and blabs. I don't see it's a lively look out for my mates, in the country or town, With "Standards" and School-rates still rising, and most other things going down. Nice thing for the nippers too, ain't it? The boys may be stuffed at both ends, Without "technical" knowledge they're wasters; them as tells 'em this truth are their friends. There 'aint no true "Apprentices" now; seven years of sound teaching don't please. But the masters and workers appear to be sweet upon freedom and ease; Old "Indentures" are too long and tight, so they just shuffle on and slop through, And it's diamond cut diamond all round, till Trade seems just a regular do. I was trained in a different school, and my motto's good work for good wage; But the sweaters and spouters between 'em spoil _that_ in this book-learned age. Mister School Teacher just take my tip, I can tell you you're on the wrong lay; You get paid, so I've heard, by results; the results, Sir, are bad, and _don't_ pay. Boys learning to read, and then spending their pence upon "Highwaymen" trash; Lads knowing the _pons asinorum_, who can't make a door or a sash; Louts lolloping round on the loose, spouting fragments of Socialist stuff; Mobs of "workmen," played shuttlecock with by the ranter, the "red," and the rough; True hands by the thousand left idle, poor mouths by the myriad unfilled, Because Wealth's so hard upon Labour, and Labour's so often unskilled; These are rummy "results!" See this lad, now; he's pale; he's well-packed, I suppose With the stuff that your "Standards" require; well, his schooling must come to a close;