MORE SORROWS OF THE SULTAN.
Beersheba gone, and Gaza too!
And lo! the British lion,
After a pause to comb his mane,
Is grimly padding off again,
Tail up, en route for Zion.
Yes, things are looking rather blue,
Just as in Mesopotamy;
My life-blood trickles in the sand;
My veins run dry; I cannot stand
Much more of this phlebotomy.
In vain for WILLIAM'S help I cry,
Sick as a mule with glanders;
Too busy—selfish swine—is he
With winning ground in Italy
And losing it in Flanders.
His missives urge me not to fly
But use the utmost fury
To hold these Christian dogs at bay
And for his sake to block the way
To his belovéd Jewry.
"My feet," he wired, "have trod those scenes;
Within the walls of Salem
My sacred presence deigned to dwell,
And I should hate these hounds of hell
To be allowed to scale 'em.
"So do your best to give them beans
(You have some ammunition?),
And at a less congested date
I will arrive and consecrate
Another German mission."
That's how he wires, alternate days,
But sends no troops to trammel
The foe that follows as I bump
Across Judæa on the hump
Of my indifferent camel.
Well, I have tried all means and ways,
But seldom fail to foozle 'em;
And now if WILLIAM makes no sign
(This is his funeral more than mine)
The giaours can have Jerusalem.
O.S.