One line – By thumping our women and weaklings. That’s grand. – This is sufficient to tell about the British sadism. A good, but perverted read.

In the middle of the hot night, the fan stops, and a man in the barrack-room, roused to desperation by heat and sleeplessness rushes forth, careless of the consequences, and kicks the fan-puller in the wrong spot, his spleen. Do you blame him? Yes and No. It depends partly on whether he stopped to put his boots on. – Capt. Stanley de Vere Julius, Notes on Striking Natives (1903)

Judicial officers should also be aware that for Europeans to commit murders is an impossibility. – Amrita Bazar Patrika (8 June 1880)

O THE proud British name ’tis a glory to bear,
So suggestive of all that is manly and fair!
The brave British Flag we have flaunted unfurled,
Till that bright bit of bunting’s the “bore” of the world !
And who has been ever yet found to resist
That modern Thor’s hammer, the true British fist ?
But now we must sing
Quite a different thing,
Long the lord of the seas and the pride of the Ring,
Let JOHN BuLL, with the world and his wife at his foot,
Lift a paean in praise of the stout British Boot!

“There’s nothing like leather!” We used to proclaim
That the knife was a sin-the savate was a shame.
Our foes to chastise, or to chasten our wives,
What so manly and frank as a right “bunch of fives,”
Shot straight from the shoulder ? We’ve altered all that,
We stick, and we kick-in despite of the Cat!
No horn’d epidermis
So hard and so firm is,
For “nobbling” our wives, such the delicate term is,-
As the thick leather sole, with stiff “uppers” to suit,
Of that sweetest of weapons, the stout British Boot !

Are our spouses remiss ? We’ll their memory jog
With a brisk application of Lancashire clog;
That is better than manual punches or “fibs”
To smash in and settle importunate “ribs”!
Effective enforcer of marital rights,
Companion and backer in “five to one” fights ‘!
Our old British pluck
Has decidedly struck,
In enlisting your service, a new vein of luck.
Pint-pot, knuckle-duster, and PAT’S oaken “shoot,”
All pale in thy glory, thou stout British Boot !

British pluck! Why, of course we’re the bravest of men,
We bulldoggy Britons! With tongue and with pen
We’ve been telling the universe that, for so long!
In each patriot speech, and each national song.
What a theme it has been for sell-soaping and bounce!
Yes, we know our unique fighting-weight to an ounce !
‘Tis a militant land,
And we keep in our hand
By thumping our women and weaklings. That’s grand.
And not only our hand we’11 keep in. but our foot,
By a liberal use of the stout British Boot !

Unmanly? Pah! Out on such sugary stuff!
JOHN BULL is no “molly”; he’s best in the rough.
Your “chivalry” means, as a matter of course,
Just depriving a chap of the use of his force.
Nature favours a fellow with vigorous muscles,
To give him the pull of the women in tussles.
Legs sturdy and thick
Were intended to kick,
(We are learning that lesson in time double quick,)
And, as toes may be tender, we’11 furnish each foot
With the rough’s vade mecum, the stout British Boot !

There are fools who aver that the chap is a cur
Who’d admonish his wife with a kick or a purr;
That the Cat is a creature too good for the dog
Who would smash his wife’s ribs in with brazen-bound clog.
Most absurd, for all Britons are brave, and the kick
Is becoming their favourite militant trick.
We must alter our song,
“Hearts of Oak,” true as strong,
Have monopolised chorus and cheer far too long.
Let us sing, let us shout for the leather-shod foot,
And inscribe on our Banners ” The Stout British Boot !

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