I've got the dumpophobia bad,
As is easy for to see;
(When a little lad I was bit by a mad
Manufacturin' man, maybe!)
An' I simply goes clean off my chump
If anyone 'appens to mention 'dump.'
For it's 'Out wi' they furriner folks!' sez I;
Will we take it 'lying down,'
When they dumps cheap goods (as we wants to buy)
Into every British town?
(Tho' per'aps it's a thing as they wouldn't do
If we 'adn't a-given 'em orders to!)
But there's good times coming, an' thanks to Joe,
When the Hempire 'll stand on 'er own;
We'll be quit o' the food them furriners grow,
An' rely on ourselves alone.
For us, an' the Colonies too, I lay,
Can grow it as good an' better'n they!
We're a British race, an' we'll soon depend
On the produc's o' British soil;
No more of our 'ard-earned wage we'll spend
Upon cheap American oil;
Them dazzlin' lamps is a big mistake,
While there's tallow candles o' British make!
We've the finest coal in the 'ole wide earth,
Which we used for to sell abroad;
But now as we knows 'ow much it's worth,
We'll save it, an' 'old it, an' 'oard.
(Tho' the pitmen 'll 'ave a word to say
When the mines shuts down an' they're turned away!)
No more o' the Roosian's corn we'll touch,
Nor the South American wheat;
An' we'll gladly pay, if it's twice as much,
To 'ave British loaves to eat!
(For the English working-man, these days,
'E must learn for to live on Colonial maize.)
If there's less to eat it'll taste more sweet,
When the Britishers all combine;
We'll 'ave tinned an' frozen Noo Zealand meat,
Washed down with Australian wine!
(Which it ain't so terrible bad to drink,
If you fancies honions mixed with ink.)
No more o' your Roosian sable cloaks
For the gentry, nor Paris 'ats;
They're buying their bunnets at Sevenoaks,
An' the trimmin's is 'Ounsditch cats;
An' that furrin' jewelry's just a sham,
They can sell you as good in Birming'am.
Them Italian organs 'll 'ave to go,
An' the ice-cream barrers as well,
When we're buying a 'alfpenny glass o' snow
From some smart Canadian swell.
An' no more o' your music from Germanee,
When our motto is 'Bands acrost the sea!'
When the furriner's foodstuffs out we shuts,
We'll still 'ave the run of our teeth
On the cocoa we makes off o' cocoanuts
As they grows upon 'Ampstead 'Eath!
An' o' British pluck we can surely brag,
When we're smoking the 'omegrown Irish shag!
We're a-buyin' our food too cheap, sez Joe
(If you listens to 'is advice);
The cost o' the loaf's too small, an' so
'E's a-trying to raise the price!
