| Title | The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists |
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| Page | 586 |
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| Chapter | -- |
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| Text |
The three unemployed accordingly resumed their march round the room, singing mournfully and imitating the usual whine of street-singers: 'Trim your fee-bil lamp me brither-in, Some poor sail-er tempest torst, Strugglin' 'ard to save the 'arb-er, Hin the dark-niss may be lorst, So let try lower lights be burning, Send 'er gleam acrost the wave, Some poor shipwrecked, struggling seaman, You may rescue, you may save.' `Kind frens,' said Philpot, removing his cap and addressing the crowd, `we're hall honest British workin' men, but we've been hout of work for the last twenty years on account of foreign competition and over-production. We don't come hout 'ere because we're too lazy to work; it's because we can't get a job. If it wasn't for foreign competition, the kind'earted Hinglish capitalists would be able to sell their goods and give us Plenty of Work, and if they could, I assure you that we should hall be perfectly willing and contented to go on workin' |
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