When first I learned to play the fool
In various (unaccepted) verses
There was, I found, one golden rule
For poets who would line their purses.
"If ye," it ran, "to wealth would mount,
For silk attire would change your tatters,
Mere quantity will never count;
Quality is the thing that matters."
Broadly this precept, too, was laid
On grosser forms of human labour;
_E.g._, on Jones's antique trade,
Or Brown, the sausage-man, his neighbour;
Until of late, throughout a land
Reeling from strikes and "reconstruction,"
A cry was heard on every hand,
A clamour for "Increased Production."
While "makers," then, gird on their might
And merchants buzz like bees in clover;
When Jones is sawing day and night
And Brown shows twice his last turnover;
Shall I not follow where they've led
And, at the PREMIER'S invitation,
Double my output, Mr. Ed.?--
I look for your co-operation.
* * * * *
"'Oh, to be in England now that Noel's near.'