Part 03: The man at the wheel : a new ballad to an old tune ("Vicar of Bray") [printed, 1885?]

[pencil [Rusden G?]

A NEW BALLAD TO AN OLD TUNE.

("Vicar of Bray")

[pencil] [1885?]

THE MAN AT THE WHEEL ____________

An honest man I life began, The pet of a patriot party; With Church and State I linked my fate, All English, true, and hearty. My principles from Pitt I took, And Peel I made my master, Distruption then I could not brook, 'Twas national disaster.

'Tis always right to vote for wrong, For Union or Repeal, Sir, If it help the Gladstone cause along, And I be the man at the wheel, Sir.

When sacrilegious Johnny praised His Irish confiscation, In horror, high my voice, I raised Denouncing desecration: My conscience then was inner sense, And not a thing external Constructed out of other mens' Demands for things diurnal.

'Tis always right, &c.

2

If Peel had lived I know not how Power could have come to me, Sir, Near him my spirit quailed as low As Anthony's by Caesar. Besides, of Peel this was the worst, He craved nor place nor pelf, Sir ; I'd sacrifice my country, first, He's sacrifice himself, Sir.

'Tis always right, &c.

But Palmerston was just as bad ; He knew me by induction ; And swore that I should first go mad, When Oxford chased me, and Pam died, Our master new was Russell— My foeman—but I swallowed pride, And flinched in never a muscle.

'Tis always right, &c.

A great discovery soon I made, Of all my works it is chief ; That I'm but weak in virtue's trade And powerful for mischief. What you can't build you may destroy, A Parthenon or Abbey ;— Ruin has now become my joy, My chums are Braddy and Labby.

'Tis always right, &c.

3

With suffrage low I thought I could Bamboozle all the masses, 'Mongst them, I preached, was flesh and blood, And not among the classes : But ne'er was foiled a demagogue As I by the men of London, Who quickly marked me as a rogue, And all my schemes were undone.

'Tis always right, &c.

The Church I'd sworn no man should touch, I cursed as an Upas tree, Sir ; Not that I wished its fall so much, As power to fall on me, Sir.

Old Erin's lyre I then became, And confiscated land, Sir ; I branded Pitt's as a blackguard name, And parasites dubbed me Grand, Sir.

'Tis always right, &c.

By one foul act I bought "Indelible disgrace," Sir, I sore distress, I Gordon sought, And slew by treachery base, Sir : And when our martyr-victim died I showed unblusing features, With sundry fawners by my side, At a play, like "guilty creatures."

'Tis always right, &c.

4

Parnell I had denounced as one Who would the realm dismember,— In treason steeped,—to rapine prone,— With more than I remember, Of murder, skulking grim behind,— Of boycotting and houghing,— Atrocities of every kind, Conceivable and shocking.

'Tis always right, &c.

Buy my resource of rhetoric In this world has no equal, Except it be in Harcourt's cheek, Or Granville's simpering sequel. Murder!—a mood of Irish love ; Boycotting!—friendly dealing ; To kill policemen—can but prove Policemens' want of feeling.

But unless my zigzag tale I close, You'll whistle me to the De'il, Sirs ; Well! even then I've a chance—who knows? Ixion's if no other, wheel, Sirs.

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NO RIGHTS RESERVED