TO THE LION OF LUCERNE.
Tino, before you went away
To crouch behind a sheltering Alp,
How strong the limelight used to play
About your bald, but kingly, scalp!
And now, emerging from the shelf
(A site where Kings are seldom happy),
You must be pleased to find yourself
Once more resilient on the tapis.
Over your past (Out, damnéd spots!)
With lavish bucketfuls you paint
The whitewash on to clean its blots
And camouflage the Teuton taint;
From William and the family tie
Protesting your unbridled freedom,
"I know you not, old man," you cry,
"Fall to your prayers—you badly need 'em!"
For Athens, to your great content,
Calls you to be her guiding star
(Only a paltry one per cent
Wanted to leave you where you are);
And you've agreed to take it on,
Jumped at the prospect Fate discloses,
And thought, "With Venezelos gone,
Life will be one long bed of roses."
But mark the oversight you made,
Forgetting, while you waxed so fat,
That England, whom you once betrayed,
Might have a word to say to that;
Might, if for love of your fair eyes
Greece should decide again to wobble,
Conceivably withdraw supplies
And cut her off with half an obol.
Roar loud, O Lion of Lucerne!
But lo, upon Britannia's shore
Another Lion takes his turn
And gives a rather louder roar;
Meaning, "It doesn't suit my views
To subsidise two sorts of beano,
And Greece will therefore have to choose
Between her tummy and her Tino."
O. S.