_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." This is the best I can do:-- 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. Then we have the National Party. I am rather vague about the National Party, but I know they are frightfully military, and they keep on having Mass Rallies in Kensington--complete with drums, I expect. Where all the masses come from I don't quite know, as a prolonged search has failed to reveal anyone who knows anyone who is actually a member of the party. Everybody tells me, though, that there is at least one Brigadier-General (Tempy.) mixed up with it, if not two, and at least one Lord, though possibly one of the Brigadiers is the same as the Lord; but after all they represent the Nation, so they ought to have a song. They have nothing but "Rule Britannia" now, I suppose. Their song goes to the tune of "The British Grenadiers." I have written it as a duet, but no doubt other parts could be added if the occasion should ever arise. THE NATIONAL. Air--_The British Grenadiers._ Some talk of Coalitions, Of Tories and all that; They are but cheap editions Of the one and only Nat.; Our Party has no equals, Though of course it has its peers, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, For the British Brigadiers.