Gigantic daughter of the West (The phrase is Tennysonian), who From this unconquerable breast The vigorous milk of Freedom drew --We gave it freely--shall the crest Of Empire in your keeping true, Shall England--I forget the rest, But Consols are at 82. II Now why should any one invest, As even City people do (His Lordship did among the rest), When stocks--but what is that to you? And then, who ever could have guessed About the guns--and horses too!-- Besides, they knew their business best, And Consols are at 82. III It serves no purpose to protest, It isn’t manners to halloo About the way the thing was messed-- Or vaguely call a man a Jew. A gentleman who cannot jest Remarked that we should muddle through (The continent was much impressed), And Consols are at 82. _Envoi_ And, Botha lay at Pilgrim’s Rest And Myberg in the Great Karroo (A desert to the south and west), And Consols are at 82. _Postscript_ Permit me--if you do not mind-- To add it would be screaming fun If, after printing this, I find Them after all at 81. Or 70 or 63, Or 55 or 44, Or 39 and going free, Or 28--or even more. No matter--take no more advice From doubtful and intriguing men. Refuse the stuff at any price, And slowly watch them fall to 10. Meanwhile I feel a certain zest In writing once again the new Refrain that all is for the best, And Consols are at 82. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Verses, by Hilaire Belloc