Volume 159 — THE LITTLE HORSE.

Sir Frederick Banbury is speaking. But it stands to reason, If you propose to pay them just the same Whether they write a little or a lot, They won't write anything. There will not be Sufficient stimulus. It's human nature, And human nature is unchangeable. Do you imagine, Sir, that Keats or Shelley Would have produced such valuable work, So large an output, if this precious Bill Had been in operation at the time? We should have had no Shakspeare. And, besides, It means the death of British poetry, Because we can't continue to compete With foreign countries. A Labour Member. I am not a lawyer Nor I am not a manufacturer, But earned my bread these five-and-forty years, Sweating and sweating. I know what sweat is.... An Hon. Member. You're not the only person who has sweated. Labour Member. At any rate I sweated more than you did. Mr. Speaker. I do not think these constant interruptions Are really helping us. Labour Member. So you may take it That what I utter is an honest word, A plain, blunt, honest and straightforward word, Neither adorned with worthless flummery And tricks of language—for I have no learning— Nor yet with false and empty rhetoric Like lawyers' speeches. I am not a lawyer, I thank my stars that I am not a lawyer, And can without a spate of parleying Briefly expound, as I am doing now, The whole caboodle. As for this here Bill, So far as it means Nationalising verse, We shall support it. On the other hand, So far as it means interferences With the free liberty of working-men To write their poetry when and how they like, We will not have the Bill. So now you know. Mr. Asquith. It was remarked, I think by Aristotle, That wisdom is not always to the wise; To which opinion, if we may include In that august and jealous category The President of the Board of Ululation, I am prepared most freely to subscribe. When was there ever since the early Forties A more grotesque and shameless mockery Of the austere and holy principles Which Liberalism like an altar-flame Has guarded through the loose irreverent years Than this inept, this disingenuous, This frankly disingenuous attempt; To smuggle past the barrier of this House An article so plainly contraband As this unlicens'd and contagious Bill— A Bill which, it is not too much to say, Insults the conscience of the British Empire? I will not longer, Sir, detain the House; Indeed I cannot profitably add To what I said in 1892. Speaking at Manchester I used these words:— "If in the inconstant ferment of their minds The King's advisers can indeed discover No surer ground of principle than this; If we have here their final contribution To the most clamant and profound conundrum Ever proposed for statesmanship to solve, Then are we watching at the bankruptcy Of all that wealth of intellect and power Which has made England great. If that be true We may put Finis to our history. But I for one will never lend my suffrage To that conclusion." [An Ovation. Mr. David Lloyd George. Mr. Speaker, Sir, I do not intervene in this discussion Except to say how much I deprecate The intemperate tone of many of the speakers— Especially the Honourable Member For Allways Dithering—about this Bill, This tiny Bill, this teeny-weeny Bill. What is it, after all? The merest trifle! The merest trifle—no, not tipsy-cake— No trickery in it! Really one would think The Government had nothing else to do But sit and listen to offensive speeches. How can the horse, the patient horse, go on If people will keep dragging at the reins? He has so terrible a load to bear, And right in front there is a great big hill. The horse is very tired, and it is raining. Poor little horse! But yonder, at the top, Look, look, there is a rainbow in the sky, The promise of fair weather, and beyond There is a splendidly-appointed stable, With oats and barley, or whatever 'tis That horses eat, while smiling all around Stretch out the prairies of Prosperity, Cornfields and gardens, all that sort of thing. That's where the horse is going. But, you see, The horse has got to climb the great big hill Before he gets there. Oh, you must see that. Then let us cease this petty bickering; Let us have no more dragging at the reins. What is this Bill when all is said and done? Surely this House, surely this mighty nation, Which did so much for horses in the War, Will not desert this little horse at last Because of what calumniators say— Newspaper-owners—I know who they are— About this Bill! No, no, of course it won't. We will take heart and gallop up the hill, We will climb up together to the rainbow; We will go on to where the rainbow ends— I know where that is, for I am a Welshman. It is a field, a lovely little field, Where there are buttercups and daffodils, And long rich grass and very shady trees. Hold on a little, and the horse will get there, Only, I ask you, let the horse have rein. That is my message to the British nation: "Hold on! Hold fast! But do not hold too tight!" [An Ovation. A Division is taken. The Ayes have it. A.P.H.