OUR PACIFISTS.
Far as my humble daily round extends,
There's none but longs to see us lay the foe low;
I cannot trace upon my list of friends
A solitary instance of a Bolo;
So that I've sometimes nursed a doubt
Whether there are such lots of them about.
But now, when that Gazette in which I read
(To learn its views on any given matter
And so avoid 'em) hints that no such breed
Exists among us, save in idle chatter,
I am convinced the country reeks
With these unnatural and noisome freaks.
Only the worst are out for German pay;
Some claim ideals on the loftiest level;
Peace (and a fig for Honour) is their lay—
Peace and the Brotherhood of man and devil;
They love all sorts beneath the sun—
Even an Englishman; but best a Hun.
They save the choicest of their tears to shed
For those who break all laws divine and human;
They'd bid the dead past cover up its dead,
Forgetful of our murdered, child and woman;
Forgetful of our drowned who sleep
Without a grave beneath the wandering deep.
I know not how or when this War will close,
But this I know: unless my brain goes rotten,
Never will I clasp hand with hand of those,
False to their blood, who'd have these things forgotten,
Who want a peace untimely made
Before the uttermost account is paid.
Thirty years on, when weak with age, I might
Possibly talk to some repentant Teuton;
But, while I still can tell a knave at sight
And have enough of strength to keep a boot on,
Only in one way will I get
In touch with samples of the Bolo Set.
O.S.