I "can no other" when I think
Of how the Hun, docile and meek,
Suffers his ravenous maw to shrink,
And only strikes, say, once a week;
If he for all these months has stood
The sorry fare they feed the brute on,
I hope that I can be as good
A patriot as your Teuton.
Henceforth I spurn the dear delight
That went so well with jam or cheese;