Volume 62 — THE NEW YEAR'S FINE. (Husband and Father sings.)

An Income-tax increased to pay, And that assessed at higher rate! Well, we must bear it as we may, By means of thrift, my weeping Mate. We'll pinch, in clothing and in cup; Thou shalt accustomed dress resign; I'll give my Gladstone claret up, To meet my Lowe's augmented fine. What though that heavy forfeit make A small, uncertain income less? What if away the coin it take, Which I should hoard against distress? What though my earnings needs must cease As soon as I shall be no more, And may not last till my decease, But fail us both, my Wife, before? Still, whilst we wince beneath the Screw, Put on with added stress this year, We'll think how much, because we Few Are taxed, the Many spend in Beer. Our impost we'll with joy endure, Because it seems the only plan From fiscal burdens to secure Exemption for the Working-Man. The Working-Man who works with tools, Such tools as hammers, saws, and planes, By hand; whose numerous suffrage rules The smaller class who work by brains. Rejoice we that what we must spare, The Working-Man has got to spend. We're privileged to pay his share, Till our ability shall end. At least when next another year, Another Budget's weight shall bring To bear on us, if we are here Still, as plucked nightingales, to sing, We've cause, another little call, At any rate, of hope to see, For payment of the needful all To set the Breakfast-Table free.