THE CALL TO ARMS IN OUR STREET
There's a woman sobs her heart out,
With her head against the door,
For the man that's called to leave her,
—God have pity on the poor!
But it's beat, drums, beat,
While the lads march down the street,
And it's blow, trumpets, blow,
Keep your tears until they go.
There's a crowd of little children
That march along and shout,
For it's fine to play at soldiers
Now their fathers are called out.
So it's beat, drums, beat;
And who will find them food to eat?
And it's blow, trumpets, blow,
Oh, it's little children know.
******
There's a young girl who stands laughing,
For she thinks a war is grand,
And it's fine to see the lads pass,
And it's fine to hear the band.
So it's beat, drums, beat,
To the fall of many feet;
And it's blow, trumpets, blow,
God go with you where you go.
W. M. LETTS.
THE KAISER'S CROWN
(VERSAILLES, JANUARY 18, 1871)
The wind on the Thames blew icy breath,
The wind on the Seine blew fiery death,
The snow lay thick on tower and tree,
The streams ran black through wold and lea;
As I sat alone in London town
And dreamed a dream of the Kaiser's crown.
Holy William, that conqueror dread,
Placed it himself on his hoary head,
And sat on his throne with his nobles about,
And his captains raising the wild war-shout;
And asked himself, 'twixt a smile and a sigh,
"Was ever a Kaiser so great as I?"
From every jewel, from every gem
In that imperial diadem,
There came a voice and a whisper clear—
I heard it, and I still can hear—
Which said, "O Kaiser great and strong,
God's sword is double-edged and long!"
"Aye," said the emeralds, flashing green—
"The fruit shall be what the seed has been—
His realm shall reap what his hosts have sown;
Debt and misery, tear and groan,
Pang and sob, and grief and shame,
And rapine and consuming flame!"
"Aye," said the rubies, glowing red—
"There comes new life from life-blood shed;
And though the Goth o'erride the Gaul.
Eternal justice rides o'er all!
Might may be Right for its own short day,
But Right is Might forever and aye!"
"Aye," said the diamonds, tongued with fire;
"Grief tracks the pathways of desire.
Our Kaiser, on whose head we glow,
Takes little heed of his people's woe,
Or the deep, deep thoughts in the people's brain
That burn and throb like healing pain.
"Thinks not that Germany, joyous now,
Cares naught for the crown upon his brow,
But much for the Freedom—wooed, not won—
That must be hers ere all is done,—
That gleams, and floats, and shines afar,
A glorious and approaching star!"
"Aye!" said they all, with one accord,
"He is the Kaiser, King, and Lord;
But kings are small, the people great;
And Freedom cometh, sure, though late—
A stronger than he shall cast him down!"
This was my dream of the Kaiser's crown.
CHARLES MACKAY—1871.