Gerald Massey: Election Lyrics

Home Up Biography Prose Reviews News Reports Miscellanea Main Index Site Search
 


 


ELECTION LYRICS
―――♦―――


THE GRAND OLD MAN.

THE SELF-STYLED " UNIONISTS."

THE GREAT NEW CAUSE.

THE VISION.

THE LEAGUE OF PAT AND HODGE.

THE PRIMROSE DAME.

 

―――♦―――
 

THE "GRAND OLD MAN."


SHALL the tie that is binding us be but a tether—
    Nought but a fetter between our lands?
All the world waits for your answer, whether
    We govern by hand-cuffs or clasping of hands.
Be not misled by promoters of panic;
    Be not beguiled by the Brummagem plan;
Show that your metal's not falsely Britannic,
    But true in its ring for the "GRAND OLD MAN."

We would have England do rightly by others,
    Not wrongly for us, as so long hath been done;
We would have Irishmen friendly as brothers,
    Bound, if at heart we are wedded and one.
Close up the gulf the fire-furies have riven!
    While Curtius is with us and leading our van,
You have but to will and it shall be.   By heaven
    It shall be! Come follow the "GRAND OLD MAN."

Well may they dub him the "one-man power,"
    Standing alone when there's room but for one,
In his pride of place, like a mountain tower
    That catches the rays of a rising sun!
We, in the valley of final decision,
    Gather around him as close as we can,
To see what he sees on his summit of vision,
    The Triumph that beckons the "GRAND OLD MAN."

Behind us the darkness of tyrannies olden
    Still threatens with thunders of impotent wrath;
Before us a "Sunburst" the present makes golden;
    A smile of the Future shows clearly our path.
Theirs was the Night with its blindness, its sorrow,
    Its riftage of strife where the red rivers ran;
Ours is the Dawn: and a brighter To-morrow
    Shall crown with its glory the "GRAND OLD MAN."

 

[Top of page]

―――♦―――

TO THE SELF-STYLED " UNIONISTS."


You offer what they do not want,
And what they sue for will not grant.
We give them POWER, that theirs may be
A real responsibility!
You talk of Union!   Why, each word
Is felt as bludgeon-sounds are heard,
When brute wife-beaters once more try
To weld with blows their wedding-tie !

You prophesy the coming wave
Will be our dear old England's grave,
Because you lack the strength of limb
And length of breath enough to swim!
You fear for self!—no fear for her!—
And fear's a craven counsellor.
You may go under our high-tide,
The Deluge that drowns you she will ride.

Lie as you will to circumvent,
Or trail the herring across the scent,
No more shall we defend your spoil,
Taken from immemorial Toil.
We will not play cat's-paw again
To filchers monkeying round as men.
The people set their fellows free;
One is the World's Democracy.

Henceforth we must have government,
Not by Coercion, but Consent.
Right shall be done at last to all,
Even though the ancient heavens fall,
On which our Childhood hung its trust.
New heavens will rise from their old dust,
To loftier heights, with larger span,
And ampler space for grown-up man.

The torch of freedom God hath lit,
Burns upward for the Infinite,
And through all hindrances it will,
And must, and shall burn upward still.
And all who try to hold the torch
Inverted, will to ashes scorch;
And all who stay the upward aim
Shall shrivel like the fly in flame.

 

[Top of page]

―――♦―――

THE GREAT NEW CAUSE.


PEACE! do you say? or, war to the knife?
Sentence of death, or freedom for life?
Is the bloody Vendetta to die away
As dawn dis-purples into day?

Vote for the Liberation Laws,
The Grand Old Man, and the Great New Cause!


Shall a race of Exiles be driven to roam
The world for ever in search of a home,
Because we turn a life-giving land
Into a desert of rootless sand?

Vote for the Liberation Laws,
The Grand Old Man, and the Great New Cause!


Say, shall the Mother be terribly torn,
That a dead Abortion may be born?
Or a nobler Future struggle forth,
With the labour-pangs of a larger birth?

Vote for the Liberation Laws,
The Grand Old Man, and the Great New Cause!

 

[Top of page]

―――♦―――

THE VISION.


THE sleep of the Dreamer is dying;
    The Dream is about to be born!
'Tis a vision of England untying
    Poor Ireland's Crown of Thorn!
The Night with its shadows is flying,
    And we shall see clearer at morn:
We feel the first airs that come sighing,
    A new life to waken, and warn
Of a Light in which tears shall be drying,
    And hell-fire no longer can burn;
Our old earth shall cease from her crying,
    Nor vainly to heaven will yearn:
Immortals with mortals be vieing
    To lift up the fall'n and forlorn.
We stand 'twixt the dawning and dying,
    That mingle their verge and their
        bourne,—
The Past, in its shroud-shadow, trying
    To hide its face, tortured and torn;
The future before us enskying
    A glimpse of Millennial Morn.
'Tis the vision of England untying
    Poor Ireland's Crown of Thorn,
And the sleep of the Dreamer is dying:
    The Dream is about to be born.

 

[Top of page]

―――♦―――

THE LEAGUE OF PAT AND HODGE.


LONG on the mountain summit
    We fed the watch-fire's flame;
We hailed, and beckoned from it,
    The help that never came!
We heard the distance humming,
    With sounds o' the battle-drum;
We dreamed the Prince was coming,
    And, lo! the Prince has come!
'Tis our enfranchised neighbour;
    True friend and fellow drudge,
Who joins the League of Labour,
    The League of Pat and Hodge.

We brooded o'er the story
    That bade us backward turn
To seek a bye-gone glory,
    And made our spirits burn.
We tried to sing our sorrow,
    And wail our woes, away;
We lived but for the morrow
    To free us from to-day.
Now neighbour joins with neighbour,
    To work and never budge:
One in the League of Labour,
    The League of Pat and Hodge.

'Twas not in maiming cattle,
    Nor desolating homes,
That we could win the battle
    By which deliverance comes.
No Tocsin from the steeple,
    No Beacons through the land
We need, now honest people
    Each other understand!
The soldier hath his sabre;
    Statecraft its subtle dodge;
We have the League of Labour,
    The League of Pat and Hodge.

"They hardly know a letter"!
    So simple are our ends,
We don't know any better
    Than that we may be friends!
We have not wronged each other,
    And therefore can forgive,—
As brother stand by brother
    To claim the right to live!
So to the pipe and tabor
    Rejoicingly we trudge;
One in the League of Labour,
    The League of Pat and Hodge.

 

[Top of page]

―――♦―――

THE PRIMROSE DAME.


THE Primrose Dame is a likely lass,
To wile and wheedle the Working Class
        Of their Votes—her end and aim.
A vision of beauty, in bye-way or street,
Is the glance of her face, or a glimpse of her feet,
        When a-foot is the Primrose Dame.

The men used to bear the brunt of the strife,—
Kissed the children, courted the wife,
        And cured the halt and the lame;
But they who once lorded it over the Poll
Now send out the women to beg and cajole,—
        Pray you pity the Primrose Dame!

We're all of one flesh, at Election time,
Of course; white-powdered or black with grime,—
        Skim milk, or crême de la crême;
Open-armed at your door she knocks,
Wants to pry into the ballot-box,
        Does the delicate Primrose Dame.

She scatters her perfume around you in showers,
Wrung from the lives of our human flowers
        Without thought of shame or blame;
And the rose of health, that was ruthlessly torn
From the children's cheeks, is wantonly worn
        In the robe of the Primrose Dame.

Soliciting votes, she is not shy,
Will let you light your pipe at her eye,—
        Kindle your fire with her flame;
But look for the snare when you see the smile,
Under the Primrose she can beguile:
        Beware of the Primrose Dame.

She only asks to be mounted astride
The British Lion—thinks she can guide,
        And the rampant animal tame,
If he will only give her his trust;
If he will only go down in the dust
        To carry the Primrose Dame.

Her charm for leading him by the nose
Is very simple—a gilt primrose,—
        What a meal for an empty wame!
Flower of simplicity!   You are too sweet,
If the brute should be tempted either to eat,—

        Let us pray for the Primrose Dame.

GERALD MASSEY.

 



[Home] [Up] [Biography] [Prose] [Reviews] [News Reports] [Miscellanea] [Main Index] [Site Search]

Correspondence should be sent to Webmaster@Gerald-Massey.org.uk