Dear Land of Hope, in which we trust,
Beneath whose ample wings we snuggle,
Safe from the Kaiser's culture-lust
And free to live and smile—and smuggle;
Devoted to the peaceful arts,
We keep our conduct strictly proper,
Yet all the time you have our hearts
(And Germany our copper).
Although the crown is theirs alone
Who crush the tyrant's bold ambitions,
Peace hath her profits, all her own,
Derived from contraband munitions;
And you who fight for Freedom's aims
Will surely shrink to put a stopper
Upon our bagmen's righteous claims
And burst the boom in copper.
Once more we swear our hearts are true
And, like the tar's connubial token,
"It doesn't matter what we do"
If we but keep that pledge unbroken;
So while we pray for Prussia's fall,
And look to your stout arm to whop her,
We mean to answer every call
She makes on us for copper.
O. S.
THE KAISER'S LOST CHANCE.
I found him gazing intently at the framed Bill of Fare by the main door of the Restaurant Furioso, where I had often lunched at his table.
"Hullo, Fritz!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing out here? Have you been sacked?"
"Ach, Mein Herr," he answered, "there has of the German waiters what you call an up-round been. I prove myself Swiss; I invoke the memory of Wilhelm Tell and the Alpine Club, but the proprietor say that he take no risk, and out I go. But no matter. I myself was myself to have sacked, but he spoke too quick."
I said I was sorry and asked whether he meant to go back to Switzerland. Fritz winked and tapped his breast pocket.