THE WORD OF A GERMAN.
Your troth was broken ere the trumpets blew;
Into the fight with unclean hands you rode;
Your spurs were sullied and the sword you drew
Bore stain of outrage done to honour's code.
And you have played your game as you began.
Witness the white flag raised by shattered ranks,
The cry for mercy, answered, man to man—
And the swift stroke of traitor steel for thanks.
Once bitten we were twice a little shy,
And then forgot; but with the mounting score
Our old good-nature, tried a shade too high,
Stiffens its lip and means to stand no more.
So now, when you protest with bleating throat,
And broider round your wrongs a piteous tale,
Urging the Neutral Ones to take a note
That we have passed outside the human pale;
The world (no fool) will know where lies the blame
If England lets your pleadings go unheard;
To grace of chivalry you've lost your claim;
We've grown too wise to trust a Bosch's word.
O. S.