If you gaze therein at your own sweet face, the reflection is broken and marred,
And echo, there, if you ask how she is, replies, "I feel very unwell."
* * * *
Why do they prate of the blessings of peace? Bloody war is a holy thing.
The world is wicked, and base, and vile—shall I show you a new kind of cure?
Smeared with blood and with parents' tears call for Moloch, horrible king!
Let him trample to dust, with a brutal foot, whatever remains of good or of pure!
For I trust, if the low-browed rogue with a ticket-of-leave from the gaol,
Encountered the sergeant recruiting, in rainbow-like ribbons arrayed,
He would clutch the Queen's shilling with glee, and draining the dregs of his ale,