LOUVAIN
A shrine, where saints and scholars met
And held aloft the torch of truth,
Lies smouldering 'neath fair Brabant's skies,
A ruined heap—war's prize in sooth!
The Pilates of Teutonic blood
That fired the brand and flung the bomb
Now wash their hands of evil deed,
While all the world stands ghast and dumb.
Is this your culture, sons of Kant,
And ye who kneel 'round Goethe's throne?
To carry in your knapsacks death?
To feel for man nor ruth nor moan?
What 'vails it now your mighty guns
If God be mightier in the sky?
What 'vail your cities, walls and towers
If half your progress be a lie?
The smoking altars, ruined arch
Of ancient church and Gothic fane
Have felt the death stings of your shells,
And speak in pity thro' Louvain.
Wheel back your guns, your howitzers melt,
Forget your "World-Power's" cursed plan
And sign in peace and not in blood
Dread Sinai's pact 'twixt God and Man.
For His Eminence Cardinal Merrier.
THE KAISER'S BHOYS
O, the Kaiser's bhoys are marching, "nach Paris" they are going,
But they've sthopped to rest a minit at the Marne and at the Meuse;
And the Gordons and the Ministers are thryin' to entertain them,
For they've every kind of "record" that the Teutons want to choose;
They have battle cries that sounded for centuries in the Highlands,
They have war cries fierce and stirring as the breath of Munster gales;
They are shoutin' to the heavens, and they're shoutin' to the Kaiser,
"Faugh-a-ballagh!" sons of Odin, or we'll tie you up like bales.
O, the Kaiser's bhoys are dramin' of a naval base at Calais,
But they wakin' ivery mornin' full of sorrow and of gloom;
For the little Belgian sojers cut the dykes and flood their trenches,
And they find their dugouts only jist a bathtub or a tomb.
But they're makin' progress backward, "nach Berlin" they are going,
With their "Landsturms" and their "Land-wehrs,"
keepin' sthep in dim grey line;
And they'll know far more of Britain and her brood of lions snarlin',
When they find themselves "su Hause" jist beyant
"Die Wacht am Rhein."