Short Ballad and Postscript on Consols
I
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.