  [The subject of the following poem will best be gathered from the entry in the notice-sheet of the House of Commons of 7th May last. We do not disguise our delight at finding that Mr Bright is about to take up the cause of protection in any portion of Her Majesty's dominions; and although his sympathies seem to have been awakened at a considerable distance from the metropolis, we are not without hope that the tide will set in, decidedly and strongly, towards the point where it is most especially needed. It is, at all events, refreshing to know that the Ryots of India have secured the services of so powerful and determined a champion, who has now ample leisure, owing to the general dulness of trade, to do every justice to their cause. "Mr Bright,—That an humble Address be presented to her Majesty, praying her Majesty to appoint a commission to proceed to India, to inquire into the obstacles which prevent an increased growth of cotton in that country, and to report upon any circumstances which may injuriously affect the economical and industrial condition of the native population, being cultivators of the soil within the presidencies of Bombay and Madras. Tuesday 14th May."] I. All the mills were closed in Rochdale, Shut the heavy factory door; Old and young had leave to wander, There was work for them no more. In the long deserted chambers Idly stood the luckless loom, Silent rose the ghastly chimney Guiltless of its former fume. II. Near a brook that leaped rejoicing, Freed once more from filthy dye, Dancing in the smokeless sunlight, Babbling as it wandered bye— Walked a middle-aged Free-trader, Forwards, backwards, like a crab: And his brow was clothed with sorrow, And his nether-man with drab. III. Chewing cud of bitter fancies, Dreaming of the by-gone time, Sauntered there the downcast Quaker Till he heard the curfew chime. Then a hollow laugh escaped him: "Let the fellows have their will— With a dwindling crop of cotton, They may ask a Five-hours Bill! IV. "Side by side I've stood with Cobden, Roared with him for many a year, And our only theme was cheapness, And we swore that bread was dear; And we made a proclamation Touching larger pots of beer, Till the people hoarsely answered With a wild approving cheer. V. "Did we not denounce the landlords As a ravening locust crew? Did we not revile the yeomen, And the rough-shod peasants too? Clodpoles, louts, and beasts of burden, Asses, dolts, and senseless swine— These were our familiar phrases In the days of auld-langsyne. VI. "And at length we gained the battle: Oh, how proudly did I feel, When the praise was all accorded To my brother chief by Peel! But I did not feel so proudly At the settling of the fee— Cobden got some sixty thousand— Not a stiver came to me! VII. "Well, they might have halved the money— Yet I know not—and who cares? After all, the free disposal Of the gather'd fund was theirs: And it is some consolation In this posture of affairs, To reflect that 'twas invested In the shape of railway shares! VIII. "O, away, ye pangs of envy! Wherefore dwell on such a theme, Since a second grand subscription Is, I know, a baseless dream? Haunt me not with flimsy fancies— Soul, that should be great and free! Yet—they gave him sixty thousand, Not a pennypiece to me! IX. "But I threw my spirit forwards, As an eagle cleaves the sky, Glaring at the far horizon With a clear unflinching eye. Visions of transcendant brightness Rose before my fancy still, And the comely earth seemed girdled With a zone from Rochdale Mill. X. "And I saw the ports all opened, Every harbour free from toll: Countless myriads craving shirtings From the Indies to the pole. Lapland's hordes inspecting cotton, With a spermaceti smile, And Timbuctoo's tribes demanding Bright's 'domestics' by the mile! XI. "O the bliss, the joy Elysian! O the glory! O the gain! Never, sure, did such a vision Burst upon the poet's brain! Angel voices were proclaiming That the course of trade was free, And the merchants of the Indies Bowed their stately heads to me! XII. "Out, alas! my calculation Was, I know, too quickly made; Even sunlight casts a shadow, There is gloom in briskest trade. I forgot one little item— Though the fact of course I knew, For I never had considered Where it was that cotton grew. XIII. "Wherefore in this northern valley, Where the ploughshare tears the sod, Spring not up spontaneous bushes Laden with the precious pod? What an Eden were this island, If beside the chimney-stalk Raw material might be gathered, Freely of an evening walk! XIV. "But alas, we cannot do it. And the Yankee—fiends confound him!— Grins upon us, o'er the ocean, With his bursting groves around him. And these good-for-nothing Negroes Are so very slow at hoeing, That their last supply of cotton Will not keep our mills a-going. XV. "Also, spite of Cobden's speeches Made in every foreign land, Which, 'tis true, the beastly natives Did not wholly understand, Hostile tariffs still are rising, Duties laid on twist and twine; And the wild pragmatic Germans Hail with shouts their Zollverein. XVI. "They, like madmen, seem to fancy That a nation, to be great, Should as surely shield the workman As the highest in the state: And they'd rather raise their taxes From the fruits of foreign labour, Than permit, as nature dictates, Each man to devour his neighbour. XVII. "So my golden dreams have vanished, All my hopes of gain are lost; Fresh accounts of glutted markets Come with each successive post. And I hear the clodpoles mutter As they pass me in the street, That they can't afford to purchase, At the present rate of wheat. XVIII. "Well, I care not—'tis no matter! My machines won't eat me up; And the people on the poor-rates Have my perfect leave to sup. Let the land provide subsistence For the children of the soil, I am forced to feed my engines With a daily cruise of oil. XIX. "Ha! a bright idea strikes me! 'Tis the very thing, huzzay! I have somewhere heard that cotton May be cultured in Bombay. Zooks! it is a splendid notion! Dicky Cobden is an ass. Wherefore should we pay the Yankees Whilst Great Britain holds Madras? XX. "Cotton would again be cultured If, with a benignant hand, Fair protection were afforded To the tillers of the land. 'Tis a sin and shame, we know not Where our real riches lie; Yes! they shall have just protection, Else I'll know the reason why. XXI. "Surely some obscene oppression, Weighs the natives' labour down, Or their energies are palsied By a tyrant master's frown. To my heart the blood is gushing— Righteous tears bedew my cheek— Parliament shall know their burdens, Ere I'm older by a week! XXII. "Ha! those fine devoted fellows! 'Twere a black and burning shame, If we let the Yankees swamp them In their mean exclusive game. I have always held the doctrine, Since my public life begun, That it was our bounden duty To take care of Number One. XXIII. "What!—allow the faithful Indian To be crushed in cotton-growing? O forbid it, truthful Wilson! O refuse it, saintly Owen! Have their claims been disregarded? There is life within a mussel; And I've got a kind of bridle On the neck of Johnny Russell. XXIV. "I shall move a special motion, Touching this o'erlooked affair: El-Dorado would be nothing To the wealth that waits us there. Let us get a fair protection For our native Indian niggers, And, I think, the Rochdale mill-book Would display some startling figures! XXV. "Ha! I've got another notion! Things are rather dull at home, And I feel no fixed objection, In my country's cause to roam. It is needful that some cautious Hand should undertake the task, Hum—there must be a commission— Well—I've only got to ask. XXVI. "They'll be rather glad to spare me, In their present precious fix: Charley Wood is somewhat shakey With his recent dodge on bricks. Palmerston's in hottest water, What with France, and what with Greece; As for little Juggling Johnny He'll pay anything for peace. XXVII. "Faith, I'll do it! were it only As a most conclusive trick, And a hint unto our fellows That I'm quite as good as Dick. Hang him! since he's made orations, In a sort of mongrel French, One would think he's almost equal To Lord Campbell on the bench. XXVIII. "Time it is our course were severed; I'm for broad distinctions now. Since my mills are fairly stoppaged, At another shrine I bow. Send me only out to India On this patriotic scheme, And I'll show them how protection Is a fact, and not a dream." |
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