Loud sneered the doughty man of France,
“Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!”
“The French for ‘Pish’” said Thomas Hance.
Said Pierre, “L’Anglais, Monsieur, pour ‘Bah.’”
Said Mrs. H., “Come, one! two! three!—
We’re sittin’ here to see all fair.”
“C’est magnifique!” said Madame P.,
“Mais, parbleu! ce n’est pas la guerre!”
“Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,”
Said Pierre, the doughty son of France.
“I fight not coward foe like you!”
Said our undaunted Tommy Hance.
“The French for ‘Pooh!’” our Tommy cried.
“L’Anglais pour ‘Va!’” the Frenchman crowed.
And so, with undiminished pride,
Each went on his respective road.
THE REVEREND MICAH SOWLS
The Reverend Micah Sowls,
He shouts and yells and howls,
He screams, he mouths, he bumps,
He foams, he rants, he thumps.
His armour he has buckled on, to wage
The regulation war against the Stage;
And warns his congregation all to shun
“The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One,”
The subject’s sad enough
To make him rant and puff,
And fortunately, too,
His Bishop’s in a pew.
So Reverend Micah claps on extra steam,
His eyes are flashing with superior gleam,
He is as energetic as can be,
For there are fatter livings in that see.
The Bishop, when it’s o’er,
Goes through the vestry door,
Where Micah, very red,
Is mopping of his head.