The White Spat

WHEN it is remembered how large a part has been played in history by revolutionary and political songs it is both lamentable and strange that at the present time only one of the numerous political faiths has a hymn of its own—“The Red Flag.” The author of the words owes a good deal, I should say, to the author of “Rule Britannia,” though I am inclined to think he has gone one better. The tune is that gentle old tune which we used to know as “Maryland,” and by itself it rather suggests a number of tired sheep waiting to go through a gate than a lot of people thinking very redly. I fancy the author realised this, and he has got over it by putting 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 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.”
“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 Black Brolly.

Air—Annie Laurie

Under the Old Umbrella,
Beneath the leaking gamp,
Wrapped up in woolly phrases
We battle with the damp.
Come, gather round the gamp!
Observe, it is pre-war;
And beneath the old Black Brolly
There’s room for several more.
Shameless calumniators
Calumniate like mad;
Detractors keep detracting;
It really is too bad;
It really is too bad.
To show we’re not quite dead,
We wave the old Black Brolly
And hit them on the head.

Then we have the Nationalist Party. I am rather vague about the National Party, but I know they are frightfully military, and they keep on having Mass Rallies in Kensington—complete with drums, I expect. Where all the masses come from I don’t quite know, as a prolonged search has failed to reveal anyone who knows anyone who is actually a member of the party. Everybody tells me, though, that there is at least one Brigadier-General (Tempy.) mixed up with it, if not two, and at least one Lord, though possibly one of the Brigadiers is the same as the Lord; but after all they represent the Nation, so they ought to have a song. They have nothing but “Rule Britannia” now, I suppose.

Their song goes to the tune of “The British Grenadiers.” I have written it as a duet, but no doubt other parts could be added if the occasion should ever arise.[2]

[2] I understand that it has not arisen. On the contrary....

The National.

Air—The British Grenadiers.

Some talk of Coalitions,
Of Tories and all that;
They are but cheap editions
Of the one and only Nat.;
Our Party has no equals,
Though of course it has its peers,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row
For the British Brigadiers.

You have no idea how difficult it is to write down the right number of rows first time; however I daresay the General wouldn’t mind a few extra ones.

We represent the Nation
As no one else can do;
Without exaggeration
Our membership is two,
We rally in our masses
And give three hearty cheers,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row
For the National Brigadiers.

There could be a great deal more of that, but perhaps you have had enough.

Of course, if you don’t think the poetry of my songs is good enough, I shall just have to quote some of “The International” words to show you that it’s the tune that matters.

Here you are:—

“Arise! ye starvelings from your slumbers,
Arise! ye criminals of want,
For reason in revolt now thunders,
And at last ends the age of cant.”

If people can grow excited singing that, my songs would send them crazy.

Then there is the Coalition. I have had a good deal of difficulty about this, but I think that at last I have hit the right note; all my first efforts were too dignified. This goes to a darkie tune:—

The Piebald Mare.

Air—Camptown Ladies.

Down-town darkies all declare,
Doo-dah, doo-dah,
There never was a hoss like the piebald mare
Doo-dah, doo-dah day!
One half dark and the other half pale,
Doo-dah, doo-dah,
Two fat heads and a great big tail,
Doo-dah, doo-dah day!
Chorus. Gwine to run all night,
Gwine to run all day!
I put my money on the piebald mare
Because she run both way.
Little old Dave he ride that hoss,
Doo-dah, doo-dah,
Where’ll she be if he takes a toss?
Doo-dah, doo-dah day!
De people try to push him off,
Doo-dah, doo-dah,
De more dey push de more he scoff,
Doo-dah, doo-dah day!
Chorus. Gwine to run, etc.
Over the largest fence they bound,
Doo-dah, doo-dah,
Things exploding all around!
Doo-dah, doo-dah day!
One fine day dat hoss will burst,
Doo-dah, doo-dah,
But little old Dave he’ll walk in first,
Doo-dah, doo-dah day!
Chorus. Gwine to run, etc.

Once again, merely written down, the words do not thrill, but I hope none of the parties will definitely reject these hymns till they have heard them actually sung: if necessary I will give a trial rendering myself.

The other day, when we were playing charades and had to act L, we did Lloyd George and the Coalition; and the people who were acting the Coalition sang the above song with really wonderful effect. It is true that the other side thought we were acting Legion and the Gadarene Swine, but that must have been because of something faulty in our make-up. The sound of this great anthem was sufficiently impressive to make one long to hear the real Coalition shouting it all along Downing Street. It is a solo with chorus, you understand, and the Coalition come in with a great roar of excitement and fervour on doo-dah! doo-dah!

Yes, I like that.