THE BLAND OLD MAN.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume I, Issue 144, 30 May 1884, Page 2

THE BLAND OLD MAN.

(Lyttelton Times.) The Bland Old Man to the South [has gone, Upon the stump you’ll find him, Playing the tune on his bland old horn That echoes still behind him. But sweetly singing ere he went, He told us, guileless charmer, “ Take, take the Unearned Increment, And tax, oh tax the farmer !” He sang of servitude and sweat, Six bob a month and rations, And how the working man’s in debt Because he pays the nation’s j Of ancient Greeks, of modern slaves, Of labor-market riggers; Of early settlers who were knaves And treated men like niggers. Of friendless beggars—till we knew We’d ne’er a friend to love us} Of homeless outcasts—till we grew To feel no roof above us. And than he sang a holy cause, Which was (if I could follow it), That what was others’ should be ours, And that we ought to collar it. And as he sang in accents bland, Still calm, and ever calmer, I saw how we could save the land By ruining the farmer. And as our heat still hotter waxed, As o’er our wrongs we maddened, I felt as though I had been taxed, Although I knew I hadn’t. He sang how men all earthly weal Attain by owning land, Until each mason there could feel A farmer out of hand; And next how farmers all should quaff The cup of tribulation, Should pay a million and a half Per annum of taxation. He bade us let the railways be, Since we’d no call to use ’em; And Separation was, said he, A wicked, false delusion. “ If money to the North take wing, “ Don’t think of that but let it: “ The Unearned Increment’s the thing, “ So set to work and get it.” I shouted for the land, I screamed That for a farm I’d fight : Then home I went to bed and dream 3d A frightful dream that night. A shape there came with eyes of flame : It cried with horrid laugh, “ Ho, farmer ! I’m your tax, my name Is ‘ Mil’ion and a Half.’ ” Thut horrid, horrid, horrid tax, It haunts me even now ; Upon my chest I feel its whacks, Its fingers on my brow. The thought of land now makes me weep, And if that tax bo meant, Pray let the bloated farmer keep The Unearned Increment.