RELIABILITY Britannia's word was spoken The feeble to defend, That promise was not broken, She kept it to the end. Britannia's word is good, Tried, tested, proved in blood, In every land, 'mid snow or sand, She for the truth has stood. Britannia borrowed millions In thrifty days of old, Now, when she asks for billions, She always gets the gold. Britannia's note is good, She signs it with her blood, Each promise made, she fully paid, Let cost be what it would. Britannia's sons are falling, The proud, the strong, the gay, They heard their mother calling, They would not say her, nay. Britannia's sword is good, She draws it when she should, The flag that flies 'neath all the skies A thousand years has stood. THE McLEANS The heather's on fire. McLeans from the byre, The hamlet, the city, the wide open plains, The lairds and rapscallions fill up the battalions With blue blood, with true blood, the loyal McLeans. They hear the drums rattle, they rush to the battle, (Each man in the clan a base coward disdains), They die in their glory, the trenches are gory With red blood, with shed blood of gallant McLeans. Afar on the heather, where hame folk foregather, The pibroch is wailing a dirge for the slain, The women are weeping, their lane vigils keeping, Sair, sair, are the hearts in the clan o' McLean. But mony will stick it, till Kaiser Bill's lickit, And doontrodden people get back a' their ain, Then Maids will stop greeting, for soon they'll be meeting The bonnie brave lads o' the clan o' McLean. FARMER JOHN SPEAKS HIS MIND May, 1917 Those fellows down in parliament Have kicked up such a fuss, That now we seem election bent To clean up all the muss. The Grits are sharpening their swords To give the Tories fits, While they, with scorching bitter words Denounce the faithless Grits. All out of doors is fresh and green, But no more green than we Who help to run the Grit machine, Or bow the Tory knee. We hear the strident party call In words no one believes; The Liberals are traitors all, The Tories all are thieves. The birds are singing in the trees, Old Summer's back at last, The lilacs scent the morning breeze, The crops are growing fast; Why should we leave these peaceful scenes, And don our vests and coats, To hear those chaps who spilled the beans Slangwhanging for our votes? If we give heed to every tale Told when the campaign's hot, The Tories all should be in jail, The Grits should all be shot. Let's raise more chickens, calves and shoats, The politicians shun, Let's grow more beans and wheat and oats, And help defeat the Hun. WHEN THE GAME ISN'T FAIR