Amazing Monarch! who at various times,
Posing as Europe's self-appointed saviour,
Afforded copy for our ribald rhymes
By your behaviour;
We nursed no malice; nay, we thanked you much,
Because your head-piece, swollen like a tumour,
Lent to a dullish world the needed touch
Of saving humour.
What with your wardrobes stuffed with warrior gear,
Your gander-step parades, your prancing Prussians,
Your menaces that shocked the deafened sphere
With rude concussions;
Your fist that turned the pinkest rivals pale
Alike with sceptre, chisel, pen or palette,
And could at any moment, gloved in mail,
Smite like a mallet;
Master of all the Arts, and, what was more,
Lord of the limelight-blaze that let us know it--
You seemed a gift designed on purpose for
The flippant poet.
Time passed and put to these old jests an end;
Into our open hearts you found admission,
Ate of our bread and pledged us like a friend
Above suspicion.
You shared our griefs with seeming-gentle eyes;
You moved among us, cousinly entreated,
Still hiding, under that fair outward guise,
A heart that cheated.
And now the mask is down, and forth you stand
Known for a King whose word is no great matter,
A traitor proved, for every honest hand
To strike and shatter.
This was the "Day" foretold by yours and you
In whispers here, and there with beery clamours--
You and your rat-hole spies and blustering crew
Of loud Potsdamers.
And lo, there dawns another, swift and stern,
When on the wheels of wrath, by Justice' token
Breaker of God's own Peace, you shall in turn
Yourself be broken.
FOR THE RED CROSS
[Sidenote: _Owen Seaman in "Punch"_]
Ye that have gentle hearts and fain
To succour men in need,
There is no voice could ask in vain
With such a cause to plead--
The cause of those that in your care,
Who know the debt to honour due,
Confide the wounds they proudly wear,
The wounds they took for you.
Out of the shock of shattering spears,
Of screaming shell and shard,
Snatched from the smoke that blinds and sears
They come with bodies scarred,
And count the hours that idly toll,
Restless until their hurts be healed,
And they may fare, made strong and whole,
To face another field.
And yonder where the battle's waves
Broke yesterday o'erhead,
Where now the swift and shallow graves
Cover our English dead,
Think how your sisters play their part,
Who serve as in a holy shrine,
Tender of hand and brave of heart,
Under the Red Cross sign.
Ah, by that symbol, worshipped still,
Of life-blood sacrificed,
That lonely Cross on Calvary's hill
Red with the wounds of Christ;
By that free gift to none denied,
Let Pity pierce you like a sword,
And Love go out to open wide
The gate of life restored.
The Red Cross Society is in need of help. Gifts should be addressed
to Lord Rothschild at Devonshire House, Piccadilly.