No. 1. MR. H. BELLOC

At Martinmas, when I was born, Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do, There came a cow with a crumpled horn, Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do. She stood agape and said, “My dear, You’re a very fine child for this time of year, And I think you’ll have a taste in beer,” Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Ho, do, do, do, Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do. A taste in beer I’ve certainly got, Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do, A very fine taste that the Jews have not, Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do. And though I travel on the hills of Spain, And Val-Pont-Côte and Belle Fontaine, With lusty lungs I shall still maintain Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Ho, do, do, do, Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do. So Sussex men, wherever you be, Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do, I pray you sing this song with me, Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do; That of all the shires she is the queen, And they sell at the “Chequers” at Chanctonbury Green The very best beer that ever was seen. Hey Dominus, Domine, Dominum, Domini, Domino, Domino.

Lord Globule was a backward lad, Round leaden eyes Lord Globule had, And shambling legs and shoulders stooped, And lower lip that dripped and drooped. At ten years old he could not get The hang of half the alphabet; At twelve he learnt to read his name, At seventeen to write the same, At twenty-one, his boyhood done, He reached the age of twenty-one, Which was sufficient reason why His father’s sturdy tenantry Should gather in a large white tent, Engulf some tons of nutriment, And, freely primed with free potations, Emit profuse congratulations. Sweet twenty-one! O magic age! The opulent youth surveys the stage Where soon he’ll walk ’mid loud applause. He only hesitates because His family all have different views Which rôle, which entrance he should choose. Lord Globule’s father thought him made To dominate the world of Trade; “Finance, finance is more his line,” Exclaimed his Uncle Rubinstein; “Oh, no,” Aunt Araminta cried, “Diplomacy should first be tried”; But in the end with one accord They thought the chances of a hoard That British politics afford Would suit Lord Globule’s pocket best. They all employed their interest With Uncle Tom, and Moses Kant, And Strauss, who married Globule’s aunt, And Johnny Burke and Stoke and Shere, And the old Duke and Humphrey Bere; So that in January next year A vacancy in Hertfordshire Offered itself, and Globule’s parts Enraptured the electors’ hearts. The next five Sessions saw him slip Through Private Secretaryship, Under-Secretaryship, Financial Secretaryship, To Secretaryship of State, With absolute power to regulate The rural and the urban rate Of birth among the pauper classes, His duty ’twas to scan the masses And carefully eliminate What seemed to him degenerate, To say what kinds they’d mutilate And which ones merely isolate In “homes from home” where they should be Looked after tender-heartedly By men selected by a Board (No fewer than twenty to each ward). A heavy task, as you’ll agree, For which they paid him liberally. Globule the office still would grace, And still would draw the emolument, Had not a wretched accident Unfortunately taken place. His chief subordinate being away (The man who wrote Lord Globule’s speeches), Lord Globule took a holiday, Going by train to Burnham Beeches, A secretary, tall and prim, As usual, escorting him. This tall young gentleman, when taxed Later, denied he had relaxed His customary watchfulness; But be that as it may, ’tis certain That late that night at Shoeburyness Lord Globule was discovered bare Of all except a muslin curtain And some few feathers in his hair And that the constable, when he Was quite unable to explain His actions or identity, Concluded that he was insane. Next day before the magistrate The poor young pillar of the State (His curtain bore no laundry marks!) Was still quite unidentified, And, catechized once more, replied Only with sundry mews and barks. And ultimately (to cut short The day’s proceedings in the court) Two doctors and the police advised That Globule should be sterilized (A thing I need not further mention), And sent to permanent detention. For days the public did not hear Of Globule’s disappearance; near And far, inquiries set on foot Quite privately, produced no fruit, Until at last the rumour spread (Not in the papers) and some one said That such a man in such a dress Had been detained at Shoeburyness. His relatives pursued the clue; Alas, alas, the thing was true, ’Twas poor young Globule.... But the worst Was this: that when they’d brought him out They found the thing had got about Among the unenlightened mob, Which stultified beyond all doubt The hopes they’d entertained at first That Globule might preserve his job. Fate was too strong; they had to bow; Globule at home had been a failure; And they could only give him now The Governorship of South Australia.