"RULE, BRITANNIA!" (?)

Since "Britain First!" is Fate's command, And History bids us sway the main, We feel this charter of our land All guardian statesmen must maintain. Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves! Out on the Chief who only shirks and saves! The nations must not rival thee, Their fleets below our own must fall. Thou must, if thou'dst be great and free, Still rise superior to them all! Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves! Such primacy e'en peaceful Cobden craves. Russia and France are now allies!— Though funny, 'tis not all a joke. As their rejoicings shake the skies, Think how the great Free Trader spoke! Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves! Better that Hundred Millions than be slaves. True, all thy statesmen say the same, Morley hands Cobden's dictum down. Yet Ins and Outs do play a game That hardly adds to thy renown. Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves! But Parties squabble and the Exchequer—saves! If thou'dst maintain thine ocean reign, And first in Commerce still would'st shine, The easy optimistic strain And Pangloss pose must not be thine. Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves! But constant warding constant watching craves. Devotion to the needs of home, And claims parochial, is not all. Beware, lest shades more darkling come, With gloomier writings on the wall. Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves! Britons to careless trust should ne'er be slaves. Say, Statesman, are those figures found Full warrant for your picture bold? Our watch the wave-washed world around Needs iron hearts, and ungrudged gold. Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves! Britons—free-handed—never need be slaves!

"Blow, blow, thou winter wind," In verse some call thee wind. Though Thursday's crowd was thinned By blasts so unrefined, And men in armour, tinnèd Like lobsters, mutely pined— They, later, "wined" and "ginned," Whilst guests superbly dined On turtle, fish (that's finned), Joints, game of matchless kind, And wines, rare, old, long-binned. Blow clear, before, behind, The streets where lately dinned The band—each man, defined, Of Vaterland the kind— And sightless singers whined Not much like Jenny Lind; Would they were dumb, not blind! Whilst grinders grimly grinned, And ground their graceless grind. I swore; perhaps I sinned. But now they seem to find Their rags, just tied and pinned, Let in thy blast unkind, By which they're almost skinned. Then blow, I do not mind, Thou rough November wind— Pronounced by many, wind.

When garden lawns are a green bog, And shrubbery vistas veiled in fog, Reload revolvers, let dogs run! The Burglar Season has begun!