Spring Song

Spring is come, and lambkings all
Frolic and frisk in the morning dew;
We hear the magpie's mating call
And Tory M.P.'s grow matey too.
Spring is the time for milking goats,
Time for the ass to feel his oats:
Spring is the time for catching votes,
Time for the Tory garden party.

The poison ivy and stink-weed bud;
The trap-door spider lays his snare;
The bull-frog breeds in the fertile mud,
Weasels wive and pole-cates pair.
The Tory now on every tree
Puts out his leaflets, and thus sings he:
"Come, meet your betters and vote for me—
Come to the Tory garden party."

The blowfly blows, the carrion crows
Go gathering straws and sticks,
And the Tory vest must feather its nest
And hatch its ravenous chicks.
"So come to the feast, you're all invited;
Meet the Squire-he'll be delighted;
We promise you won't be snobbed or slighted;
Come to the Tory garden party.

"So come—there's ices and cakes and jugs
Of bubbling lemonade;
Come ye suckers and come ye mugs,
The caterers' bills are paid.
Lubberly lads and lolloping lasses,
Well-fed dames of the wealthy classes,
Smart society silly asses,
Come to the Tory garden party."