290
“War is a game which, were their subjects wise,
Kings would not play at,” wrote the poet’s pen;
But in war’s issue will be staked the prize,
While kings and subjects are but erring men;
So Britain—native empress of the seas—
On ocean cradled, by her storm-king nursed—
Friend of the fallen, guardian of the free,
Rests on her well-tried last and trusty first.
Her first alone can well maintain her right,
Unscathed by any threat or mutinous blast;
And though, when needed, foremost in the fight,
Her first (strange paradox!) is always last!
But should the tide of war approach the shore
And threaten to engulf her island seat,
My whole, replying with defiant roar,
Would crash the audacious foe beneath her feet!
291. AN EASY CHARADE
My first is flogged to make it move the faster,
And turns at once to satisfy its master.
My next will ripen as a pleasant fruit,
For those whose simple taste its flavours suit.
My whole, when breezes blow and pennons fly,
Stands up aloft and points us to the sky.
292. NOT BY CANNING
A noun there is, of plural number,
In daily use from here to Humber.
Now almost any noun you take
By adding “S” you plural make;
But if you add an “S” to this,
Strange is the metamorphosis!
Plural is plural now no more;
Useless what useful was before.