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Brothers-in-Blood.

Air—"The Screw may Twist," from "Yeomen of Guard (Sullivan).

Octette—
Merry Slaughtermen are we, men of heart and men of brain,
And you see us from our labours fresh and gory;
We've a lengthy pedigree, which goes back as far as Cain,
On the Cattlefield we seek undying glory.
We're the Argonauts of Grease, for we seek the Golden Fleece,
And in sharing it we neither err nor bungle;
On the Slaughterhouse's floors we are Spanish Toreadors,
We're the fierce and stealthy tigers of the "Jungle."

Chorus.
Our screw may rise, our screw may fall,
It matters not to us at all,
For if there's aught that we do not like.
Our remedy's a good fat strike.

Bis.

From the meadow to the coop, from the shambles to the soup,
Is a journey made by many a juicy ovine.
If there's any chance of loss, now we sacrifice the bos,
Where in former days men sacrificed the bovine.
Now when wool goes up in flames, a select commission aims
On a germ to place the blame of all the burning;
But Easterfield's small fee is a guinea for each flea,
As the only festive germ in bales sojourning.

Chorus.
And wool may rise, and wool may fall,
It matters not to us at all,
For if there's aught that we do not like,
Our remedy's a good fat strike.

Bis.

We still do a slashing biz, though a new sect has ariz
Which intends to do away with all the cooking;
What they live on heaven knows, but some stuff they call Bromose,
And a good square feed when no one else is looking.
But we've got no cause for fear, for there's nothing out of Gear
In the strongholds of Ngahauranga and Petone,
And the beasts that manned the Ark bore the meat inspector's mark,
From the Hippo to the tiniest Polony.

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Chorus.
Our screw may rise, our screw may fall,
It matters not to us at all,
For if there's aught that we do not like,
Our remedy's a good fat strike.

Bis.