THE VENGEANCE.
I never liked the man at Number Nine,
But now my breast is bursting with its wrongs,
For when we had a few old friends to dine
And crowned our feasting with some gentle songs,
Instead of simply drinking in the glamour,
The charm of it, he had the cheek to hammer
The party-wall with pokers and with tongs.
Ah, me! that Art should suffer such disdain!
But what can one expect in time of war?
Mayhap our minstre'sy had given pain
To some tired patriot in bed next-door—
Some weary soul that all day fashions fuses,
To whom his sleep is more than all the Muses—
And so, for England's sake we sang no more.
No longer now the hideous truth is hid:
The man is nothing but a Pacifist;
And, what is worse, he draws four hundred quid
For representing views which don't exist,
Although in Parliament, without his poker,
I'm glad to see they would not hear the croaker,
But when he talked they only howled and hissed.
And now all Hammersmith with zeal prepares
To make a night of it when next we sing;
We shall not waste our soft romantic airs,
But the glad street with warlike strains shall ring
Of blood and armaments and Fritz's whacking,
And he shall hammer till the walls are cracking,
And the whole suburb joins us in "The King."
A.P.H.