THE HOHENZOLLERN PROSPECT.
REFLECTIONS OF THE HEIR-APPARENT.
When I've surveyed with half-shut eyes,
Over the winking Champagne wine,
What I shall do when Father dies
And hands me down his right divine,
Often I've said that, when in God's
Good time he goes, I mean to show 'em
How scorpions sting in place of rods,
Taking my cue from REHOBOAM.
But now with Liberty on the loose,
And All the Russias capped in red,
And Demos hustling like the deuce,
And Tsardom's day as good as dead—
When on the Dynasty they dance
And with the Imperial Orb play hockey,
I feel that LITTLE WILLIE'S chance
Looks, at the moment, rather rocky.
Not that the Teuton's stolid wits
Are built to plan so rude a plot;
Somehow I cannot picture Fritz
Careering as a sansculotte;
Schooled to obedience, hand and heart,
I can imagine nothing odder
Than such behaviour on the part
Of inoffensive cannon fodder.
And yet one never really knows.
You cannot feed his massive trunk
On fairy tales of beaten foes
Or HINDENBURG'S "victorious" bunk;
And if his rations run too short
Through this accursed British blockade
Even the worm may turn and sport
A revolutionary cockade.
Well, at the worst, I have my loot;
And if, in search of healthier air,
We Hohenzollerns do a scoot,
There's wine and women everywhere;
And, for myself, I frankly own
A taste for privacy; I should rather
Not face the high light on a throne—
But O my poor, my poor old Father!
O.S.
