THE NATIONAL SONG.

Temuka Leader, Issue 949, 11 May 1882, Page 3

THE NATIONAL SONG.

The following is the National Song written by the poet laureate, Alfred Tennyson, and sent by Sir Dillon Bell to the New Zeaianu Government First pledge our Queen, this solemn night, Then drink to England, every guest, That man’s the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best! ; May Ereedom’s oak for ever live, With larger life from day to day: That man’s the true conservative Who lops the mouldering branch away. Hands all round! God the traitor’s hope confound! To the great cause of Freedom drink, my friend, And the great name of England round and round. To all the loyal hearts who long' To keep our English Empire whole! To all our noble sons, the strong New England of the Southern Pole ! To England under Indian skies, To those dark millions of her realm! To Canada whom we love and prize, Whatever statesman holds the helm. Hands all round! God the traitor’s hope confound! To the great name of England drink, my friends, And all her glorious colonies round and round.

To all our statesmen, so they bo True leaders of tbe land’s desire ; Td both our Houses, may they see Beyond the borough and the shire ; We sailed wherever ship could sail, We founded many a mighty State, Pray God our greatness may not fail Through craven fears of being great. Hands all round! God the traitor’s hope confound! To the great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England round and round.

A writer in the Christchurch Press signing himself ‘Democritus’ says : -The Agent General for New Zealand is a very clever man, and is fond of his joke. But he is hardly justified in putting such a joke upon us as to send out a bale of copies of such' a burlesque as “ Hands all Round” at the public expense. I say “ burlesque,” because it is inconceivable that the thing you publish this morning under the above name can be the production of the Poet Laureate. It is easy to understand that even such stuff as this “poem” might be endured by the wiseacres and old women who compose the Colonial Society in London, but that industrious colonials who work for their living should be invited to sing it on the Queen’s Birthday is nothing short of an insult to their understanding. The whole style of the thing suggests that it is intended to be sung by a chorus composed of fussy Tories in the cups and inebriated swagsmen. As the session is approaching the copies of this edifying “ song ” may be utilised with advantage in lighting the fires in the Parliamentary buildings.