Why do they call, sonny, why do they call
For men who are brave and strong?
Is it naught to you if your country fall,
And Right is smashed by Wrong?
Is it football still and the picture show,
The pub and the betting odds,
When your brothers stand to the tyrant's blow
And England's call is God's?
DIES IRAE
[Sidenote: Owen Seaman in "Punch"]
To the German Kaiser
Amazing Monarch! who at various times,
Posing as Europe's self-appointed saviour,
Afforded copy for our ribald rhymes
By your behaviour;
We nursed no malice; nay, we thanked you much,
Because your head-piece, swollen like a tumour,
Lent to a dullish world the needed touch
Of saving humour.
What with your wardrobes stuffed with warrior gear,
Your gander-step parades, your prancing Prussians,
Your menaces that shocked the deafened sphere
With rude concussions;
Your fist that turned the pinkest rivals pale
Alike with sceptre, chisel, pen or palette,
And could at any moment, gloved in mail,
Smite like a mallet;
Master of all the Arts, and, what was more,
Lord of the limelight-blaze that let us know it—
You seemed a gift designed on purpose for
The flippant poet.
Time passed and put to these old jests an end;
Into our open hearts you found admission,
Ate of our bread and pledged us like a friend
Above suspicion.
You shared our griefs with seeming-gentle eyes;
You moved among us, cousinly entreated,
Still hiding, under that fair outward guise,
A heart that cheated.