I'm only a common workin'-man,

      With a eye to my vittles an' beer,

      But afore I puts my money on Joe,

      There's a thing or two as I'd like to know,

      Which 'e 'asn't a-made quite clear.

      I admit as it sounds attractive-like

      For to shut them furriners out,

      But every Board School nipper knows

      As there's things wot only a furriner grows

      As we couldn't well do without.

      There's sugar, an' rice, an' cocoa-nibs,

      There's cawfy an' tea as well,

      As we never could raise, suppose we tried,

      And we 'as to buy 'em somewheres outside,

      And the furriners 'as to sell.

      But they don't give nothin' for nothink —

      Which you can't dispute the fac' —

      An' we're sending 'em hevery bit as much

      Of our cotton-goods, an' our coal, an' such,

      As 'll pay the beggars back.

      An' the less we buys o' them furrin goods,

      The less of our own's returned;

      Which it's plain to see as the more they take,

      The more our firms 'as a chance to make,

      An' the 'igher the wages earned.

      For it's British Labour as pays the price

      O' them goods as crosses the sea,

      An' suppose as the furrin imports fail,

      It's the case of a empty dinner-pail

      For the workin'-man like me.

      Let the furriner send 'is foodstuffs in —

      Lor' bless you, I ain't afraid!

      For the more we markets with other lands,

      The more employment for British 'ands,

      An' the better for British trade!

      I 'asn't no love for the German man,

      Nor yet for the 'eathen Turk,

      But I ain't a fool as 'll shut the door

      In the face of even a blooming Boer,

      If the beggar can give me work.

      For it's work I wants, an' it's wages too,

      An' I'm lookin' afore I leap;

      I won't go chucking a job away,

      On the chance of a possible rise o' pay,

      While food's to be 'ad so cheap.

      I'm only a workin' artisan,

      But the truth I'd like to know;

      I ain't for takin' no risks, myself,

      Of a empty grate an' a empty shelf —

      No, thanks, sir, not for Joe!

      'E says as 'e'll 'sweep the Country'!

      And 'e'll do it too, maybe;

      If the workin'-men don't 'ave a care,

      They'll find as there ain't no Country there,

      When 'e's swep' it – into the sea!

      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