Anarchists' Song.

Air: "Yo ho, little girls."

Anarchist's Motto: "Each man should rule himself."

King's Motto: "I will rule,—myself."

Now hark while I sing of a famous trade
And the joys that spring therefrom;
A variation of howls as played....
With the all-persuasive bomb.

I tell you it's not the slightest use
For a monarch to hope for bliss,—
Our code of morals is somewhat loose,
And we are resolved to play the deuce
With any such scheme as this —
(All) Diabolical scheme like this.

For we are the anarchists, the great individualists.
We are just as certain as men can be
There is nothing on earth as fine as we!
Hooray for the old Means Rea,
The Latin for Purpose Fell;
We all understand there is nothing so grand
As a well-directed shell.

Our trade is powder, and steel, and fist,
And that's where we really shine;
But the bane of the individualist
Is the fact that he won't combine.
Oh! we are the boys for mechanical toys
And sportive instincts keen;
Though we cannot agree to share our joys,
We are all agreed that we like the noise
Of nitroglycerine,
(All) Of nitroglycerine.

"Dynamite is the peroration of the Anarchist's argument."

For we are the anarchists, the quick-change specialists;
And the fun begins when we open out,
By throwing our dainty things about.
It's really most convincing,
The way these baubles tell;
We are all quite aware there is naught to compare
For effect with a bursting shell.

page 13

Now a Maxim gun means certain death,
And so does the great Pom-Pom;
But I shall swear with my dying breath,
By the quaint and decisive bomb.
When I go to the gallows to meet my fate,
With feelings akin to gloom,
I shall gloat as I wink to some cheerful mate,
Whose bulging pockets would indicate
The Sheriff's approaching doom,
(All) The blighter's impending doom.

For we are the anarchists, the arch-individualists,
And the fun begins when we come to light
With a couple of pounds of dynamite;
Then hey for the old Mens Rea,
The Latin for "Purpose Fell";
We all realise it is very unwise
To tread on a bursting shell.

"I'd level gaols, let scoundrels loose,
Blow priests and churches up;
But, oh, my pity's so profuse
I couldn't drown a pup."

—Stephens.

page 15

The Emperor's Lament.

Air: "I'm a gone coon."

I'm a gone King, I'm a goner,—
Oh I am upon my honour!
I had thought to be a Kaiser
(Though considerably wiser),
But there's been a fall in stocks,—
And I'm right upon the rocks.
I imagined I was clever,
But the money's gone for ever;
With my worries treason mingles,—
They would blow me through the shingles—
I'm a hen-pecked king.

I've a dark past, that is certain;
But o'er that I'll draw the curtain.
I was fond of hops and horses,
Getting married and divorces;
And my counsellor is dead,—
I think he lost his head.
The future seems no brighter
I'm a miserable blighter,
And these sinners here would sack me,
They are itching to attack me—
I'm a martyred King.

Mine's a bad case matrimonial,
Oh it is, on my colonial;
I have found that little Cupid
Is a sluggard and a stupid.
Wretched luck has soured my look,
Not a damsel can I hook;
I have passed through all the stages,
I have tried them of all ages.
My complexion I have tinted
And my breath I've pepperminted—
Poor rejected King.

Chorus:
Rejected King,
I'm a jilted, side-stepped spark;
Although I'm quite a lady-bird
They take me for a lark.
Many Ma's from time to time,
Have had me on the string
Uneaught, uncornered I remain
A Single King.

"We often hear that it is a sad thing to have to die,—a strange complaint to come from those who have had to live."

—Mark Twain.

page 17

Anarchists' Chorus.

"He is useless on top of the ground; he ought to be underneath it inspiring the Cabbages."—The Philosopher On Tommy Taylor.

Air: "Soldiers of the King."

Anarchists have never, never been
Renowned for patriotic loyalty;
We, in fact, have ever, ever had
A craving for the blood of royalty:
But now the Emperor's reformed us,
Although we had him in our power;
And it's so good-bye to regicide,
For we decide we're satisfied
That schemes like ours should be decried—
Put the old "mens rea" out of sight.
There's a flood tide in affairs of men,
And if they ken to take in when
It has reached high water-mark, well then
Each may be dubbed a gentle knight. ..

Run Through Chorus.

"Blast the traitor and his pernicious counsels."— Rowe.

Our Sovereign may boast of the millions he's spent that
Britannia may bloatedly govern the waves,
In view of the wholly unlikely event that
An eagle-eyed foe should enthral us his slaves.
The masses bow down to him cheering ad libit,
'Mid glittering banner and cannon's loud boom;
But necklet of rope, and the stark lonely gibbet,
The jeer of the mob be the anarchist's doom.

Our land is of freemen; equality's gloss is
On him who flies high and the fellow who delves:
The working man's vote is the same as his boss's,
The people are free to misgovern themselves.
And he who would alter our law or would grudge it
The hallowing sanction that ages can bring,
Need but introduce a most radical budget—
But death to who smirches the name of the King!

page 18

Capping Songs,

The Career of a Junior Scholar.

Air: "Yo ho, Little Girls ("Country Girl.")

(By "One of Them.")

"An excellent scholar, one that hath a head filled With calves' brains without any sage in them."

—"The Devil."

I came to Coll. with a Junior Schol.
At high things I aspired;
But I winked at Poll and kissed dear Doll
And of swat I soon got tired.
I'd heard a lot of a student's way
And it seemed a rare good sport.
"Twas a life that was merry every day,
With nothing else but to he gay,
But I've found it's not such sport. (Bis.)

"Come thou goddess fair and free In heav'n yelep'd Euphrosyne."

Yo ho, old chap, yo ho, you must swat away yoho!
And don't watch the girls, with their clustering curls,
And their teeth like pearls, while your head quite whirls.
Swat away my hearty, and if your eyes grow sore,
Use boracic, drink some Massic,
And then swat on some more.

I thought I'd be a LL.B.,
And I went to see the Prof.,
He said to me, "Now, let us see,
Have you got brains enough?"
Some people think that a man of law—
Now this is rather rash—
Has only got to wag his jaw,
And try to trap some clients raw,
And then rake in the cash (Bis.)

Yo ho, old chap, ho ho, to my lectures you must go,
Hear what Austen says and Blackstone says,
And Pollock says, but Adamson says.
Write away ray hearty, and never mind your stops,
For your pen must go till the ink won't flow,
Or the clock its signal drops.

page 19

But now I've found a man's not bound
To take a high degree,
And if he shouts the Profs, all round,
From terms he'll soon be free;
And now reform is gaining fast,
We think it's not far wrong,
For many a man will then be passed,
Who has kept up courage to the last
Though he has failed so long.

Yo ho, freshmen, yo ho,
I'll tell you all I know,
Just wait a while till reform comes on,
Then you needn't swat to become a don
Heave a ho, my hearties,
So don't burn midnight oil,
But go to the balls in sundry halls,
No more you have to toil.

Coronation Honours.

Air: "Yip-I-addy-I-ay."

(By Charley Peace.)

"Too apt to purr at every stranger's praise."

—Munchausen on New Zealand.

Old England was busy, her nobles were dizzy
With planning and plotting in style;
A swell Coronation befitting a nation
As great as the little red Isle.
Her brains she was racking, just one thing was lacking.
A circus could nowhere be found,
But when almost despairing, Hall-Jones started caving,
And sent this great rumour around.

"Send along to the Colonies. Tell them what You need.
Old New Zealand will certainly
Find a way out of the difficulty:
Since a 'Dreadnought' she couldn't afford,
Without the help of Sir Joseph Ward,
Send a wire just to say that we need him to-day—
Send for Joseph Ward."

page 20

Sir Joseph was wired, and straightway [unclear: acquired]
A circus to startle the Earls.
He set off in style, with his wife and a smile,
And a troupe of Hobsonian girls;
As a ring-master clever, his equal has never
Been heard of in East nor in West;
While none could be gamer than Findlay the Tamer,
And College provided the rest.

De la Mare was the acrobat, dressed in gold and green,
Danced a Frog dance with special care,
Looped the loop with his toes in the air.
Rawdon Beere conducted the band, a tin of bromose in his hand.
He could ride on a horse round a veg'table course.
Or dance a jig on demand.

So great was the fame of this circus the name of
New Zealand was on ev'ry tougue.
And now it's expected that we'll be selected
To share in the praise that is sung.
Sir Joe, to he sure, as Lord Awarua.
Is going to create a great stir,
While to Findlay, the great, will be given in state
The title of Knighthood and Sir. . .

"A mere court butterfly
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch."

"Sardana."

De la Mare as a Baronet, Rawdon Beere as a Knight,
Will appear on the honours list.
Leaving England how they will be missed.
When our heroes come home once more,
With stories and tales by the score
We will stand up and cheer ..
For the Frog and for Beere.
We have "been there before."