Act III.

Cave Canem (Which being interpreted meaneth—according

to the Junior Latin Class—Beware lest I sing).

—Psalm
Air from English Prayer Book. Psalter—Morning Prayer. Te Deum Laudamus—Second Chant.
1. Gaze ye, O gaze | upon | us,
The wise men | of our | gener | ation;
2. For unto us the future | of the | land
Is as the clay in the | hands | of the | potter.
3. From the setting of the sun * to the rising up | of the same,
We commune together for the | greatness | of the | nation.
4. Lo, we are the publicans of this | gener | ation,
And unto us are committed the shekels | of a | stiff-necked people.
5. And he that asketh, receiveth | only | one-half
Of | what — | — he | asketh;
6. So that the University | we have | builded
Only | half — | — suf | ficeth.
7. Wherewithal and howsoever may we | tax the | farmers,
And cast out from our midst | those that | profit | eer,
8. We no | manner of | means
Have as yet or ever | shall — | have dis | covered;
9. Behold, when the ful | ness of time
Shall | call us | to our | fathers,
10. St. Peter shall provide us * at the gate each with the wings | of an | angel,

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Likewise a sweet-sounding harp | and all the | latest | tunes.
11. Then shall we twang * seated each on a | golden | cloud,
Bright with the haloes bestowed on us | for our | goodly | labours.
12. Verily we shall make there | soulful | music;
But we shall leave as an inheritance to our successors | Wellington's new | railway | station | .

The Good Old Times. Air: "A Maiden's Lips."
(From "Going Up.")
Gone are the trousers of last year,
And consumed its ice-creams;
Never to come again, we fear,
Save to men in their dreams.
For though we feed them, pet them, all their lives,
They're still the dear old tabby things,
Queer, old tabby things;
Dressed in their trousers of last year
That they wear in their dreams.

In Debt Tune : "Shurrup!"
O, my name's Henry Wright, and I think I'm not wrong
If I say my profession is debt;
It's not elevating but "tanto pro quid,"
And you don't get your neck in a sweat.
Now, everyone here who has seen my top hat
Will admit it's a topping affair;
The cheques on my trousers are crossed as you see,
So you might as well stay where you were.

Refrain:
Suppose there were five thousand grocers who groced,
Engrossed in the getting of pelf;
And lots of your friends had big shares in the same,
Great Wombats ! you'd get some yourself.
Suppose now, Bill Massey, with tears in his eyes,
Said, "Henry, won't you have a spot?"
You'd say, "I don't think ! It leads one to drink.
Eh—what!"

Some fortunate people look down on my trade,
Which doesn't admit of degrees.
If it did, which it doesn't, there can be no doubt,
Professors are hard ones to squeeze.

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Now if one tried to square me with Roman Law Notes,
That he'd written all out of his head,
And one was a Bolshevik brutal and bad,
I'd say what I always have said :—

Refrain :
Who knows that I mightn't have been a prof., too;
I can profit a lot in my way.
I might be the scion of some noble king,
Or a rajah who lives at Bombay.
I might be a hunter, a punter perhaps;
As a child I was filched from my cot.
My pedigreed blood you see from my stud,
Eh—what!

O, girls, if you'd seen me just three months ago,
As I tapped at the door of Lloyd George :
"If that is you, Henry, then come right inside."
He was forging notes fast in a forge.
He offered me poison for Highlander Milk;
I said, "Here, old boy, don't you fret.
New Zealand is hard up, so hand out the pay—
I've come for the National Debt."

Refrain :
He said, "Who'd have thought it to look at your face,
It's the funniest face that I've seen."
I answered, "You rude man, where's Parent and Guard ?
He's sure to be here on the scene.
Now out with the tin." And he handed it out,
And here's little me with the lot.
O, girls, it's all true, so what shall I do ?
Eh—what!

Three Jolly Reporters.
Air: "A Man who would woo a Fair Maid." ("The Yeoman of the Guard.")
Three jolly reporters we be,
In a manner refreshing and free,
(Posing) With valour unswerving
The public we're serving,
And this is how it's come to be:
From our neat little porch near the door
We decided the issue of war,

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And at an all-night session
We showed great discretion,
While two of us slept on the floor.

All: Oh, many the dodges we know,
And much is the tact we must show;
Three jolly old scribblers,
We follow these quibblers
In the way we would like them to go.

2. Members' faults we explain all away,
In a manner now grave and now gay,
Now, chasing some hobby
Into the wrong lobby,
He suddenly thought he would stray.
Neat phrases we oft introduce,
And we make all their grammar look spruce,
For in bad punctuation,
And enunciation,
Our Parliament here is the deuce.

All: Grammatical slips we correct,
In a manner you'd scarcely suspect;
Three jolly reporters,
We teach the untaughters,
And a fee we disdain to collect.

3. I'm a Hansard reporter all day,
And I follow each member alway;
But, alas! emendations
Are made by rotations
To what he had meant he'd say.
But a staff of good printers employed,
I half of the year keep annoyed,
And in castle and hovel
You'll find that fine novel,
And there's it's extremely enjoyed.

All: Oh, much is the fiction we write;
H. C. Wells we beat right out of sight;
Threee jolly old jotters,
Inveterate spotters,
And safer—when we are not tight.

A Prince of the Blood Air: "Bachelor Gay."
A Prince of the blood we are—
In fact, we have always been—

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Our wife must be quite particular—
We're son of a king and queen.
So they toured us about in U.S.A.,
But they 'd never a girl to suit;
We're now inspecting the distinguees,
Colonial maids (here's a choice array),
Till we make up our mind to do it.

Chorus: We only wish he'd do it.
But oh, the notes the ladies word so neatly,
To coax a word of thanks!
And oh, the photographs all smiling sweetly!
(Especially from the Yanks!)
But we've a heart that falls in love discreetly—
That's twice a week, old bean—
And the Knave of Hearts they call us,
From the gent who stole off all those
Sweet young things when trying to draw the Queen.

The life of a modern Prince
Isn't all it's cracked up to be;
All your life you endure folks' stares and squints,
With never a chance to spree;
At luncheons, reviews with blaring bands,
You smile 'midst great applause;
But you miss the colonial wonderlands,
For you have to shake kiddies' and soldiers' hands
With the tip of your aching paws.

At Panama a lassie jazzed divinely—
How we shocked the chaperones!
Hawaiian belles can fox-trot superfinely,
With twinkles all their own.
In Rotorua maids haka-ed leoninely
(Our nose has been tender since);
But at Wellington the dances
Are official sets of lancers—
Which is Hades for a really modern Prince.

—"Off to Samoa." Air "On the Right Side of Bond Street."
For we must off to Samoa,
On the high eastern road,

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For it's the new "White man's burden,"
And we've taken up the load,
With all its workmen from Asia—
Tusitala's abode,
And its utter isolation from New Zealand.

Till we get to Samoa,
We'll have movies aboard,
Swedish jerks and Prof. Marsden—
Then we'll see if its a fraud
Working labour indentured
When it won't of its own accord—
And Samoa's been indentured to New Zealand.