There is no France to fight—
Your gallant WILLIE'S blade has "bled her white."
In England (as exposed by trusty spies)
We are reduced to starve on dog and thistles;
London, with all her forts, in ashes lies;
Through Scarboro's breached redoubts the sea-wind whistles:
And Margate, quite unmanned,
Would cause no trouble if you cared to land.
Roumania is your granary, whence you draw
For loyal turns a constant cornucopia;