Huddersfield Chronicle (17/Sep/1892) - Municipal Matters

The following is a transcription of a historic newspaper article and may contain occasional errors. If the article was published prior to 1 June 1957, then the text is likely in the Public Domain.


Don't forget to remember ’twill soon be November,
    When voters rush off to be polled,
Like sheep they will stray, as the “bell” sounds the way,
    Having sense just to do as they’re told.
Dear labour will be simple enough you will see,
    As its leaders give promise and vows,
To blink fast its eyes and wake with surprise
    To find neither acres nor cows.
They will give it eight hours while increasing its powers
    By filling its pockets with pay,
Never fearing such action might tend to contraction
    Of trade, and fast drive it away.
The Hydropot sure is the real Simon Pure,
    Vote for him and all right you will be,
Like the poor Anti-Vac., he will make your lips smack
    At the prospect he says he can see.
The Fabians bold will divide wealth untold,
    From the top of the earth to its centre,
While the wild Socialists, with a stroke of their fists,
    Will smash bolts and bars and all enter.
The Huddersfield Rads with their Liberal dads
    Will do as they always have done.
Ask for your votes on promissory notes,
    And laugh in their sleeves at the fun.
They very well know, if to Council they go,
    To the victors the spoil does belong,
To them a majority is sufficient authority,
    To make wrong right or right wrong.
To the chair in committee, without reason or pity,
    Headlong they will vote for each other,
If a Tory apply, “sit down” is the cry,
    And forthwith all his hopes try to smother.
If he dare to aspire to the Bench a bit higher,
    For one can they only find crumbs,
He is told with full breath he must wait for a death,
    As they keep up their twiddling of thumbs.
If his friends should declare that the whole thing’s unfair,
    That the rates Tories pay should commend them
High honours to hold, with sternness they’re told—
    “Let them pay, it is we who will spend them.”
For the premier post they might give up the ghost,
    To be Mayor is by right of reversion,
A twenty-three-year-old Liberal freehold,
    Which they ne’er will submit to conversion.
The world’s record they beat as with greedy conceit,
    They stick to the Mayor’s golden chain,
No place can they find that has been so purblind,
    As the Tories chief claims to disdain.