ng in some good powerful words like
"scarlet," "traitors," "flinch" and "dungeon," whenever the tune is
particularly sheepish. The effect is effective. Just imagine if the
Middle Classes Union could march down the middle of the Strand singing
that fine chorus:--

"Then raise the scarlet standard high,
Beneath its shade we'll live and die;
Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer
We'll keep the Red Flag flying here."

Well, I have set myself to supply some of the other parties with
songs, and I have begun with "The White Spat," which is to be the
party-hymn of the High Tories (if any). I have written it to the same
tune as "The Red Flag," because, when the lion finally does lie down
with the lamb, it will be much more convenient if they can bleat and
roar in the same metre, and I shall hope to hear Mr. ROBERT WILLIAMS
and Lord ROBERT CECIL singing these two songs at once one day. I am
not wholly satisfied with "The White Spat," but I think I have caught
the true spirit, or, at any rate, the proper inconsequence of these
things:--

THE WHITE SPAT

Air--_Maryland._

The spats we wear are pure as snow--
We are so careful where we go;
We don't go near the vulgar bus
Because it always splashes us.

_Chorus._
We take the road with trustful hearts,
Avoiding all the messy parts;
However dirty you may get
We'll keep the White Spat spotless yet.

At night there shines a special star
To show us where the puddles are;
The crossing-sweeper sweeps the floor--
That's what the crossing-sweeper's for.

_Chorus._
Then take the road, etc., etc.

I know it doesn't look much, just written down on paper; but you try
singing it and you'll find you're carried away.

Of course there ought to be an international verse, but I'm afraid I
can't compete with the one in my model:--

"Look round: the Frenchman loves its blaze,
The sturdy German chants its praise;
In Moscow's vaults its hymns are sung;
Chicago swells the surging throng."

This is the best I can do:--

From Russia's snows to Afric's sun
The race of spatriots is one;
One faith unites their alien blood--
"There's nothing to be said for mud."

Now we have the song of the Wee Frees. I wanted this to be rather
pathetic, but I'm not sure that I haven't overdone it. The symbolism,
though, is well-nigh perfect, and, after all, the symbolism is the
chief thing. This goes to the tune of "Annie Laurie":--

THE OLD