Tho’ a cove’s no blooming poet,
W’en ’e’s grateful to a man
’Tis ’is dooty for to show it
In the smartest way he can.
So the gratitood wot’s burning
Most impatient in my brain,
Into rhyme I’m after turning
All for Joseph Chamberlain.
Bless my soul, I’ve known the feller
Quite a time; I’ve ’eard him speak
In a voice so smooth and meller
You’d ’ave thought ’im mild and meek,
But afore yer ceased to wonder
W’y ’e stood be’aving so
’E’d be ’itting out like thunder—
That’s the way with my pal Joe!
That’s the way with Joe, the worker—
Joe who precious straight ’as run—
Joe, wot ’ates the snob and shirker—
Joe, the lad who gets things done.
Joe of Brummagem [Birmingham] they named him,
When at first ’e made ’is bow,
But a bigger word ’as claimed ’im,
’E is Joe of Empire now.
Tell yer straight—the whole caboodle
Of the coves wot govern we,
Peer and party, boss and noodle,
I wud sooner lose than ’e;
’E’s no dook in Piccadilly,
But for knowing wot is wot,
I believe—that ain’t no silly—
’E’s the only man we’ve got.
Cheer ’im—for the hurts ’e mended
In them countries overseas.
Cheer ’im—for the trip that’s ended—
’E will like such thanks as these.
Cheer ’im—in the train, the station,
In the streets thro’ which ’e’ll go.
Let ’im ’ear the British nation
Saying, “Thank yer kindly, Joe.”
B.F.R.
