[_Lines composed on what looks like the eve of a general European war;
and, designed to represent the views of an average British patriot._]
_To Servia._
You have won whatever of fame it brings
To have murdered a King and the heir of Kings;
And it well may be that your sovereign pride
Chafes at a touch of its tender hide;
But why should I follow your fighting-line
For a matter that's no concern of mine?
_To Austria._
You may, if you like, elect to curb
The dark designs of the dubious Serb,
And to close your Emperor's days in strife--
A tragic end to a tragic life;
But why in the world should I stand to lose
By your bellicose taste for Balkan coups?
_To Russia._
No doubt the natural course for you
Is to bid the Austrian bird "Go to!"
He can't be suffered to spoil your dream
Of a beautiful Pan-Slavonic scheme;
But Britons can never be Slavs, you see,
So what has your case to do with me?
But since Another, if you insist,
Will be cutting in with his mailèd fist,
I shall be asked to a general scrap
All over the European map,
Dragged into somebody else's war,
For that's what a _double entente_ is for.
Well, if I must, I shall have to fight
For the love of a bounding Balkanite;
But O what a tactless choice of time,
When the bathing season is at its prime!
And _how_ I should hate to miss my chance
Of wallowing off the coast of France!