  O ENGLAND, can you hear it Without a blush of shame? Our lay, they mean to queer it, And stop our little game. It’s right down mean and sneaking— They’re going to give the blues, To stop their boots from creaking, New indiarubber shoes. It makes a Briton shirty, And sets his hair on end, To think to tricks so dirty The law should condescend,— That in the land of freedom And honourable views, The slops, e’en though they need ’em, Should walk in silent shoes. Fair play they say’s a jewel; There’s honour among thieves; But this new dodge is cruel— For look how it deceives! Our Mayor should call a meeting— His lordship can’t refuse— Denouncing law competing With crime in silent shoes. It’s hard enough at present For us to earn our bread, And always most unpleasant To hear the peeler’s tread; But we between starvation And honesty must choose, If once the British nation Allows these blarsted shoes. |
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