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 THE LIBRARY 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 * MADE •* 
 
 nsr 
 
 ENGLAND 
 
 VERSES 
 
 O WEN 
 
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 MADE IN ENGLAND
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 WAR-TIME 
 
 VERSES 
 
 Paper is. net. Cloth zs. net 
 
 ' ' His feeling is whole-hearted and deeply 
 sincere, and always the felicity of his 
 expression shows the craftsman who has 
 mastered the last detail of his craft." — 
 Observer. 
 
 " Marked not only by that great skill of 
 versification for which he has long been 
 noted, but by that passionate fervour, 
 happy fancy or scathing satire most proper 
 to the subject with which he happens to be 
 dealing." — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "The majority of them appeal to and 
 applaud the national spirit, and their final 
 effect is a stronger and stouter national 
 heart."— Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " Sir Owen Seaman's command of tech- 
 nique is above criticism ; but qualities 
 undiscovered in his earlier work emerge in 
 these war-time verses. . . . No editor of 
 Punch has ever had such opportunities, but 
 none has been more finely equipped for 
 turning them to the noblest account." — 
 Spectator. 
 
 Published by 
 CONSTABLE & CO LTD London W C
 
 MADE IN ENGLAND 
 
 VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 OWEN SEAMAN 
 
 LONDON 
 
 CONSTABLE & COMPANY LTD 
 
 1916
 
 Reprinted by the courteous permission of the 
 Proprietors of Punch. 
 
 Printed in Great Britain.
 
 PR 
 
 GO 51 
 S43£ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Trench Humour Made in Germany ... 7 
 Weary Willie, Junior ...... 9 
 
 More Sorrows of the Sultan . . , .10 
 
 Wanted : A Censor of the House . . .12 
 
 The Wayside Calvary ...... 14 
 
 Of Gases . . . . . . . .15 
 
 To the First Zeppelin over London . . 17 
 
 To the Chancellor of the Exchequer . 19 
 
 The Limitations of the Kaiser . . . .20 
 
 To Ferdinand, on His Prospects . . . .22 
 
 Cases Reserved . . . . . . 23 
 
 To a Soldier M.P. Home from the Front . 25 
 
 MoF 27 
 
 The Fortress of London . . . . .28 
 
 The Bitter Cry for Butter . . . -3° 
 
 The Ueberland Route . . . . . 32 
 
 The Word of a German . . . . -34 
 
 How to Get up a Holy War . . . -35 

 
 CONTENTS 
 
 A Balkan Nursery Rhyme . 
 
 Culture and the Colossus . 
 
 To the Pro-Shirkers .... 
 
 Erzerum : A Set-Back in the Holy War 
 
 For They are Jolly Poor Fellows 
 
 The Kaiser on Kilimanjaro 
 
 A Cure for Depression 
 
 Teuton Overtures .... 
 
 Methods of a German Missionary 
 
 Dress Economy and the Claims of Art 
 
 More Peace-Talk in Berlin 
 
 PAG* 
 
 37 
 38 
 40 
 42 
 
 44 
 46 
 48 
 
 49 
 5i 
 53 
 55
 
 Trench-Humour made in Germany 
 
 " Fas est el ab hoste docerV 
 
 [" There is in England no real soldiers' humour such as we have." 
 — Cologne Gazette.] 
 
 What badinage is this that rocks the trenches, 
 
 What jeu d? esprit or military jest 
 That strains the Bosch's ribs, and rudely wrenches 
 
 The quivering fabric of his lower chest ? 
 
 What is this note of mirth whose echoes tingling 
 Through barracks where the lager runs in spate 
 
 Bring down the roof and set the beer-mugs jingling ? 
 It is the humour of the " Hymn of Hate ! " 
 
 Full of elusive fun and swift surprises, 
 In every jocund phrase and joyous fitte 
 
 This gay and sparkling anthem crystallises 
 The essence and the soul of German wit. 
 
 We've nothing like it. In the dull stagnation 
 Induced by British humour's sad decline, 
 
 Thomas, relying on a loose translation, 
 Sings it {allegro) all along the line. 
 
 7
 
 MADE IN ENGLAND 
 
 Thanks to a nature singularly plastic, 
 Blent with a humble willingness to learn, 
 
 He soon assimilates the light fantastic 
 
 Touch of the Teuton's favourite comic turn. 
 
 Thus pluck we wrinkles of the foe's imparting ; 
 
 He taught us gas-work in our guileless past ; 
 And so with humour — though behind at starting, 
 
 We still may smile the loudest at the last. 
 
 8
 
 Weary Willie, Junior 
 
 [These lines refer to one of the earlier advances on Verdun.] 
 
 I hear that we are going strong 
 
 Out there upon the Polish front, 
 But somehow something's always wrong 
 
 About my own peculiar stunt ; 
 Each single time I take a blob ; 
 
 For just a solid year I've scored 'em ; 
 And now this tedious Argonne job 
 
 Has turned me stiff with boredom. 
 
 Once more I'm told to hack my way 
 
 To Verdun by the nearest route, 
 This time allowing no delay 
 
 For women, wine or other loot ; 
 Well, I have hacked and hacked and hacked 
 
 Day after day in dull succession, 
 And only made in point of fact 
 
 A very small impression. 
 
 I fear that Father takes it ill ; 
 
 He taught me as a bud to sprout ; 
 From him I learned the way to spill 
 
 My cannon-fodder's blood about ; 
 He nursed my Hohenzollern brains 
 
 And showed my scabbard how to rattle, 
 And yet, for all his pious pains, 
 
 I cannot win a battle. 
 
 9
 
 More Sorrows of the Sultan 
 
 Sometimes, when most I realise the blunder 
 
 That fixed the Faithful in their present plight, 
 I put myself the question, why in thunder 
 I joined this rotten fight. 
 
 Why for a William's beaux yeux did I sally 
 
 Forth to a quest that wasn't Turkey's show ? 
 What am I doing in this noisome galley ? — 
 That's what I want to know. 
 
 I saw which side my bread was moist with butter ; 
 
 Noticed the obverse (which I chose) was dry ; 
 Why then did I take on this silly flutter ? 
 I can't imagine why. 
 
 I knew our priceless gift for double-dealing ; 
 
 I knew the wisdom which was once Stamboul's ; 
 Yet — and the sore place doesn't look like healing — 
 I fell between two stools. 
 
 For, if we lose — I bid good-bye to Europe, 
 
 Or win — to Liberty farewell I say ; 
 In any case I entertain a poor hope 
 Of making this thing pay. 
 10
 
 MORE SORROWS OF THE SULTAN 
 
 Meanwhile, when Christian Bosch meets Christian 
 Briton, 
 Then is the tug of war for my poor Turks, 
 Who fight the latter, but would love to sit on 
 William and all his works. 
 
 Slaves of that Lord, by alien drivers mastered, 
 Forward or backward still one fate they find, 
 For either by the foe in front they're plastered 
 Or by the Hun behind ! 
 
 This comes of following Enver (who's a heretic) ; 
 
 But why I did it, when I knew quite well 
 The moment for inaction — to the very tick — 
 Allah alone can tell ! 
 
 ir
 
 Wanted : A Censor of the House 
 
 You little folk — just voices, nothing more — 
 Who love to figure on the Chamber floor, 
 Wallow in sentiments of Teuton tint 
 And see your prattle reproduced in print ; 
 Here in these islands, on your native sward, 
 We know you (not in person, thank the Lord), 
 And on the advertising space you fill 
 Can put its proper value, which is nil. 
 But yonder, in your friend the enemy's land, 
 Where nobody begins to understand ; 
 Where Truth's imbibed from very ancient founts 
 And still they think a politician counts ; 
 Where those who judge us have no measuring-span 
 Whereby to tell a midget from a man — 
 Out there the Press reports your childish chatter 
 As though it fell from mouths that really matter, 
 And Berlin says : " They grope without a guide 
 Now that the expert, A, has come our side ; " 
 Or " Britain's Empire crumbles at a touch — 
 Her leading statesman, B, has said as much." 
 And Huns who never heard your names till now 
 Suck it all in and wear a radiant brow, 
 Crying, " Turn on the gas ! Our Gott begins 
 His tardy punishment of England's sins ! " 
 
 12
 
 WANTED: A CENSOR OF THE HOUSE 
 
 Records of shining courage, such as spur 
 Limp hearts to action, frequently incur 
 The india-rubber of the Press Bureau 
 Lest they afford a wrinkle to the foe ; 
 But you, who give us words in lieu of deeds, 
 Content to blather while your country bleeds, 
 Still hounding with the old sectarian hate 
 The men whose only party is the State — 
 No Censor has the pluck, it seems, to tackle 
 The copious spout of your putrescent cackle ; 
 At large it spreads for enemy eyes to view 
 And, viewing, picture England torn in two. 
 Had I my way for just a little spell, 
 I would expunge your words and you as well, 
 Who by your alien tricks have fairly earned 
 The Anglo-Bosch's right to be interned. 
 
 B 13
 
 The Wayside Calvary 
 
 [Lines written on the anniversary of the outbreak of the war.] 
 
 Now with the full year Memory holds her tryst, 
 
 Heavy with such a tale of bitter loss 
 As never Earth has suffered since the Christ 
 Hung for us on the Cross. 
 
 If God, O Kaiser, makes the vision plain ; 
 
 Gives you on some lone Calvary to see 
 
 The Man of Sorrows Who endured the pain 
 
 And died to set us free — 
 
 How will you face beneath its crown of thorn 
 That figure stark against the smoking skies, 
 The arms outstretched, the sacred head forlorn, 
 And those reproachful eyes ? 
 
 How dare confront the false quest with the true ? 
 
 Or think what gulfs between the ideals lie 
 Of Him Who died that men might live — and you 
 Who live that men may die ? 
 
 Ah, turn your eyes away ; He reads your heart, 
 Pass on and, having done your work abhorred, 
 Join hands with Judas in his place apart, 
 You who betrayed your Lord. 
 
 H
 
 Of Gases 
 
 [To the enemy, who has given praise to Heaven for the gift of 
 poison.] 
 
 There is a gas your chemists make, 
 Not such as cleanly chokes the breath, 
 
 But dealing, just for cruelty's sake, 
 
 A long-drawn agony worse than death ; 
 Nor do you deem it odd 
 
 To vaunt its virtues as a gift from God. 
 
 And there's a gas, the " laughing " blend 
 (Although its humour seems remote) ; 
 
 They peg the patient's mouth and send 
 A soporific down his throat ; 
 And, like a child at dawn, 
 
 Waking, he finds a stump or two withdrawn. 
 
 Such is the gas your masters' art 
 Gives you to deaden pain and fear ; 
 
 They take and prize your jaws apart 
 When gaping wide for Munich beer, 
 Press-gag your mouth and nose, 
 
 And pump and pump till you are comatose. 
 
 Long draughts of strange and windy lies 
 Down your receptive maw you gulp, 
 
 Until the opiate seals your eyes 
 And Reason gets reduced to pulp ; 
 So well the vapours work, 
 
 Like hashish on your torpid friend, the Turk. 
 
 15
 
 MADE IN ENGLAND 
 
 But, when you breathe pure air again, 
 Sore with a sense of something missed, 
 
 And want to know who drugged your brain, 
 I envy not the anaesthetist ; 
 You'll raise a hideous rout 
 
 On finding all your wisdom-teeth are out. 
 
 16
 
 To the First Zeppelin over London 
 
 [In the measure of Shelley's " To a Skylark."] 
 
 Hail to thee, high-flier, 
 
 Who with generous heart 
 Pourest out thy fire 
 
 Over earth's dim chart 
 In sundry spasms of well-premeditated art ! 
 
 Like a monstrous bird 
 
 Overseas thou comest ; 
 Melodies unheard 
 
 Through the heavens thou hummest, 
 And bombing still dost soar, and soaring ever bombest. 
 
 O'er thy bloated carcass 
 Plays the silver beam, 
 Where, in azure dark, as 
 In a nightmare dream, 
 Thy crew are swung and wish themselves elsewhere, I 
 deem. 
 
 Forth from many a tile (hark !) 
 
 Boom the happy guns, 
 Having quite a sky-lark 
 
 Blazing at the Huns, 
 With now a decent shot, and now some rotten ones. 
 
 17
 
 MADE IN ENGLAND 
 
 Didst thou look for panic, 
 
 Counting on a scare 
 Caused by that Titanic 
 Sausage up in air ? 
 Then let me tell thee, London hasn't turned a hair. 
 
 Calm she gazed with such eyes 
 
 On the scene as though 
 Watching cocoanut-shies 
 
 Or a comet-show 
 Or pyrotechnics done by Messrs. Brock and Co. 
 
 Saw the last red light out, 
 And, with jaunty tread, 
 After half a night out 
 Struck for home and bed 
 And on the usual pillow laid the usual head. 
 
 With the morrow's dawning 
 
 Rose and, all serene, 
 Turned — a little yawning — 
 
 To the day's routine, 
 And went about her work as if thou hadst not been. 
 
 18
 
 To the Chancellor of the Exchequer 
 
 After Swinburne' s " The Oblation." 
 
 [In the Budget of September, 191 5, duty was proposed on 
 cocoa, tea, clocks, cinema films, musical instruments, etc.] 
 
 Ask something more of me, please ; 
 All that you mention I'll do ; 
 
 Bless your dear heart, were it more, 
 More would I give at a squeeze — 
 Gold for our worrying through, 
 Notes for the sinews of war. 
 
 'Tis but a trifle to raise ; 
 
 So I may gladden your eyes, 
 Willingly up will I stump, 
 Watching with patriot gaze 
 Cocoa and clocks as they rise, 
 Films and bassoons on the jump. 
 
 I that have nothing to spare 
 Cheerfully part with the same ; 
 Little I envy their pile, 
 Misers that grudge you your share ; 
 His is the joy of the game, 
 His who can pay with a smile. 
 
 19
 
 The Limitations of the Kaiser 
 
 I ever regard his case as odd 
 
 Who ventures to doubt that I'm a god ; 
 
 Few, in fact, can distinguish me 
 
 From my friend and double, the Deity ; 
 
 Yet I cannot behave like a fowl in air, 
 
 I cannot at once be everywhere. 
 
 Limited thus, I must needs decide 
 
 Where I would spend last Christmastide ; 
 
 Various pleasant schemes I had — 
 
 Paris and London and Petrograd — 
 
 But I couldn't have painted them all three red, 
 
 So I finally stayed at home instead. 
 
 Now Yule is on us again and I'm 
 Still bound by the laws of space and time ; 
 My heart, like a common man's, is torn 
 Between the above and the Golden Horn, 
 With matins under a Moslem dome ; 
 But how can I do all four — and Rome ? 
 
 Meanwhile it's bad for my beauty rest 
 (East being East and West still West) 
 If I'm expected to bear the brunts 
 Arising out of a brace of fronts, 
 Neither of which — from a distant view — 
 Is doing as well as I told it to. 
 20
 
 THE LIMITATIONS OF THE KAISER 
 
 I find the travelling most severe, 
 
 Though I only do it from rear to rear ; 
 
 And often enough has the wish occurred 
 
 That I could arrange to be a bird ; 
 
 And it's " Oh ! " I cry with my godlike voice, 
 
 " Oh ! for the wings — of a dove, for choice." 
 
 21
 
 To Ferdinand, on His Prospects 
 
 Between the Turk, your country's ancient foe, 
 Whose butchers drank her blood like steaming 
 wassail, 
 
 And him of Potsdam, who, if matters go 
 
 Smoothly, will have you as his humble vassal, 
 
 You are the tertium quid, Ferdinand, which 
 
 Conspires to make a most repulsive sandwich. 
 
 Here stands the Moslem with his brutal sword 
 Still red and reeking with Armenia's slaughter ; 
 
 Here, fresh from Belgium's wastes, the Christian Lord, 
 His heart unsated by the wrongs he wrought her ; 
 
 And you between them, on your brother's track, 
 
 Sworn, for a bribe, to stick him in the back. 
 
 Yet, spite of such a fellowship, your fate 
 
 Won't be a steady round of beer and skittles ; 
 
 Old friends are best ; and love that turns to hate 
 Is certain to acidulate your victuals ; 
 
 For Russia, whence your land her freedom drew, 
 
 Will show that she who made can break you too. 
 
 And not alone that bright blade, hung o'erhead, 
 Shall dull your cheer and poison all you swallow ; 
 
 Uneasy sits the alien King who's wed 
 
 To schemes his patriot folk are loth to follow ; 
 
 So next your skin (for flannel won't avail) 
 
 You'd better wear a steel-proof shirt of mail. 
 
 22
 
 Cases Reserved 
 
 [" The Government are of opinion that the general question of 
 personal responsibility shall be reserved until the end of the War." 
 — Mr. Balfour.] 
 
 Let sentence wait. The apportionment of blame 
 To those who compassed each inhuman wrong 
 Can bide till Justice bares her sword of flame ; 
 But let your memories be long ! 
 
 And, lest they fail you, wearied into sleep, 
 
 Bring out your tablets wrought of molten steel ; 
 There let the record be charactered deep 
 In biting acid, past repeal. 
 
 And not their names alone, of high estate, 
 
 Drunk with desire of power, at whose mere nod 
 The slaves that execute their lust of hate 
 Laugh at the laws of man and God ; 
 
 But also theirs who shame their English breed, 
 
 Who go their ways and eat and drink and play, 
 Or find in England's bitter hour of need 
 
 Their chance of pouching heavier pay ; 
 
 23
 
 MADE IN ENGLAND 
 
 And theirs, the little talkers, who delight 
 
 To beard their betters, on great tasks intent, 
 Cheapening our statecraft in the alien's sight 
 For joy of self-advertisement. 
 
 To-day, with hands to weightier business set, 
 
 Silent contempt is all you can afford ; 
 But put them on your list and they shall get, 
 When you are free, their full reward. 
 
 H
 
 To a Soldier M.P. Home from the 
 
 Front 
 
 Affectionately inscribed to Colonel Arthur Lee. 
 
 [" I confess I am a bit weary of the ' Voice from the Trenches ' 
 and the ' Message from the Front ' when they . . . take the form 
 of complaint and criticism of what we are thought to be doing at 
 home. These good fellows are excellent in their line and place ; 
 but when they come here and lecture us they are out of their 
 depths, and are talking about something they do not understand." 
 — Sir T. Whittaker, M.P., in " The Daily News" quoted by Colonel 
 Arthur Lee, M.P., in the House.] 
 
 On leave for just a slight repose, 
 You have to bear with patient head 
 
 The sniffy patronage of those 
 
 Whom you have guarded safe in bed ; 
 
 Who, though they never touched a gun, 
 
 Can teach you how a war is run. 
 
 Coming from where no store is set 
 
 On eloquence, except of deeds, 
 Modestly on your feet you get 
 
 To talk about the Army's needs ; 
 And learn that out in foreign lands 
 No one can tell where England stands. 
 
 25
 
 MADE IN ENGLAND 
 
 You are of those " good fellows " whom, 
 " Excellent in their line and place," 
 
 Whittaker (doughty knight) would doom 
 To hold their tongues with humble grace 
 
 And read the illuminating tracts 
 
 Of those at home who have the facts. 
 
 What should you know about the War 
 Who only know it on the spot ? 
 
 The things outside your billet's door 
 Are much too near and much too hot ; 
 
 Distance alone can lend the true, 
 
 The cool, dispassionate point of view. 
 
 Besides, you've lost your status here ; 
 
 Elected by the People's Voice, 
 You turned from that exalted sphere 
 
 Declining on a lowlier choice ; 
 So long away, you seem to wear 
 Almost an alien's doubtful air. 
 
 Better go back across the seas ! 
 
 And leave these Whittakers to loose 
 Their party-nostrums at their ease — 
 
 For such the soldier has no use, 
 Finding the facts of life and death 
 Too large for any shibboleth. 
 
 26
 
 Mof. 
 
 I little worry when I'm told 
 
 That my orthography is gauche : 
 I spell it " Bosch," though scholars scold 
 And all the leading linguists hold 
 I ought to spell it " Boche." 
 
 Let every pedant have his fun 
 And every learned prig his fad ; 
 
 By any name beneath the sun 
 
 It's my opinion that the Hun 
 Would smell about as bad. 
 
 Thus, where the border-fence is laid 
 Between the Belgians and the Dutch 
 
 (And when you strike it in the shade 
 
 Electrocution's artful aid 
 Deletes you at a touch), 
 
 The Netherlanders, lying low, 
 
 But taking neutral leave to scoff, 
 Have found a name by which to know 
 The Teuton beast, the common foe — 
 They call the thing a " Mof." 
 
 This word (I like it well enough : 
 The spelling's Dutch, but let it pass) 
 
 Means, being tantamount to " Muff," 
 
 A cylinder of hairy stuff, 
 Also a silly ass. 
 
 27
 
 The Fortress of London 
 
 Oft had I strayed through London town 
 
 Yet, till the Teuton gas-bags came 
 (Not shooting loosely at the brown 
 
 But with a most deliberate aim — 
 Or so it said in their report) 
 
 I harboured still the fond illusion 
 That this was not a martial spot 
 
 Tripled in steel against intrusion. 
 
 I took it for a haunt of peace, 
 
 Civilian to the very maw, 
 Its sole defence a stout police, 
 
 The sentinels of British law, 
 Who stood with lifted hand and large 
 
 Untying tangles in the traffic, 
 And now and then arrested men 
 
 Who tried to scorch or steal or maffick. 
 
 The forts of Hampstead, fully manned, 
 
 Escaped me ; I had failed to view 
 The terraced bastions (Mappin's brand) 
 
 Designed to guarantee the Zoo ; 
 I'd seen no observation-post 
 
 High on St. Paul's when nights were stilly, 
 No tricky maze of trenched ways 
 
 Raking the slope of Piccadilly. 
 
 28
 
 THE FORTRESS OF LONDON 
 
 I'd missed the ponds in every Park 
 
 All stiff with Dreadnoughts off the brine, 
 And sailors singing after dark 
 
 " The Watch upon the Serpentine ; " 
 I was profoundly unaware 
 
 That, steaming hard and never stopping, 
 Our T. B. D.'s, as thick as bees, 
 
 Patrolled the waves from Kew to Wapping. 
 
 But now the film is off my eye ; 
 
 I see, or rather take on trust, 
 The reason William gives me why 
 
 London may be reduced to dust ; 
 Her women-folk must go elsewhere, 
 
 Her old and sick, her young and tender, 
 Leaving behind the warrior-kind 
 
 To line her bulwarks and defend her. 
 
 And so, by German truth made wise, 
 
 I have an answer terse and clear 
 For those who would not recognise 
 
 My status as a Volunteer ; 
 At last my manhood's hour has come 
 
 And, now that all the facts are shown up, 
 I claim the right, by sitting tight, 
 
 To have my chance of being blown up. 
 
 29
 
 The Bitter Cry for Butter 
 
 [Great despondency has been caused in the Fatherland by 
 lamentable shortage of butter, without which the life of a Gern 
 woman is not regarded as worth living.] 
 
 The dying year goes out in gloom ; 
 
 In vain the sodden bunting flaps ; 
 In vain the Potsdam pedlars boom 
 
 Their novel line in Balkan maps ; 
 Bare is the festal tree, and still 
 
 The breath of music, brass or oaten — 
 All joyance, by the War-Lord's will, 
 Being verboten. 
 
 And, where beneath her limes Berlin 
 
 Moves silent as a dumb golosh, 
 What is this wail that chokes within 
 
 The bosom of the female Bosch ? 
 What is this sense of something lost 
 
 Which, when they meet in solemn batches, 
 Makes an unmitigated frost 
 Of Kaffeeklatsches ? 
 
 Is it by any chance a case 
 
 Of husband, brother, lover, son, 
 
 Far from his womankind's embrace 
 Doing his duty as a Hun ? 
 
 30
 
 THE BITTER CRY FOR BUTTER 
 
 Is it the absent strafer's kiss 
 
 On whose account this plaint they utter ? 
 No, 'tis a dearer loss — they miss 
 Their slabs of butter. 
 
 Teuton Fraus are brave, no doubt, 
 And at a pinch would stand to arms, 
 
 But simply cannot do without 
 
 The fatty source of half their charms ; 
 
 Withhold the product of the churn, 
 You take from life its leading savour, 
 
 Those podgy waists by which they earn 
 Their warriors' favour. 
 
 Some day the nation's nerve may crack 
 (So straws will break a camel's hump) 
 
 Through local riots due to lack 
 
 Of means to keep its women plump ; 
 
 1 think it may ; my hopes are high 
 That William's world-compelling flutter 
 
 Shall yet be dislocated by 
 A dearth of butter. 
 
 31
 
 The Ueberland Route 
 
 [Reverie of a Sultan.] 
 
 Of course it's very nice for me, 
 
 And should, by rights, promote a gay mood, 
 To keep the course to India free 
 For William's passage ; this should be 
 
 The best of fun for Mehmoud. 
 
 I ought to like, for his pure sake, 
 
 Remembering how superb a Boss it is, 
 To hang about in Ferdie's wake 
 And watch the vulgar Bulgar break 
 Our record in atrocities. 
 
 And yet the prospect turns me blue. 
 
 Must I (God's Shadow as I am) lick 
 The Kaiser's crushers, should he do 
 A grace to me in passing through, 
 
 And light at my Selamlik ? 
 
 Let's hope he may not turn aside 
 
 To share with me an hour's inertia ; 
 But, taking Bosphorus in his stride, 
 Push on to make the East his bride 
 By way of poor old Persia. 
 
 32
 
 THE UEBERLAND ROUTE 
 
 Else he may find the foe en route, 
 
 Ready to bar his road at Bagdad, 
 And Father's mouth will then be mute 
 To Little Willie's cry for loot : — 
 " Me for the Indian swag, Dad ! " 
 
 33
 
 The Word of a German 
 
 Your troth was broken ere the trumpets blew ; 
 
 Into the fight with unclean hands you rode ; 
 Your spurs were sullied and the sword you drew 
 
 Bore stain of outrage done to honour's code. 
 
 And you have played your game as you began. 
 
 Witness the white flag raised by shattered ranks, 
 The cry for mercy, answered, man to man — 
 
 And the swift stroke of traitor steel for thanks. 
 
 Once bitten we were twice a little shy, 
 
 And then forgot ; but with the mounting score 
 
 Our old good-nature, tried a shade too high, 
 Stiffens its lip and means to stand no more. 
 
 So now, when you protest with bleating throat, 
 And broider round your wrongs a piteous tale, 
 
 Urging the Neutral Ones to take a note 
 
 That we have passed outside the human pale ; 
 
 The world (no fool) will know where lies the blame 
 If England lets your pleadings go unheard ; 
 
 To grace of chivalry you've lost your claim ; 
 We've grown too wise to trust a Bosch's word. 
 
 34
 
 How to Get up a Holy War 
 
 (German Style.) 
 
 [The Special Correspondent of The Times at Salonica states that 
 " among the documents examined at the Consulate of his Catholic 
 and Apostolic Majesty of Austria are 1,500 copies of a long pro- 
 clamation in Arabic to the Chiefs of the Senussi, inciting them to a 
 Holy War on non-Germanic Christendom." The proclamation 
 purports to be composed by one of the Faithful, but " its pseudo- 
 Oriental wording clearly betrays its Germanic authorship."] 
 
 In Allah's name, Senussi ! Allah's name ! 
 Please note the Holy War that we proclaim ! 
 For now the psychologic Tag has come 
 To put the final lid on Christendom, 
 Always excepting that peculiar part 
 Which has the hopes of Mussulmans at heart. 
 For lo ! this noble race (its Chief has said it ; 
 Else would it seem almost too good to credit), 
 Prompted by generous instincts, undertakes 
 To waive its scruples and for your sweet sakes, 
 Indifferent to private gain or loss, 
 To help the Crescent overthrow the Cross. 
 
 Christians they are, I own, this Teuton tribe, 
 Yet not too Christian. I could here inscribe 
 A tale of feats performed with pious hands 
 On those who crossed their path in Christian lands 
 
 35
 
 MADE IN ENGLAND 
 
 Which, even where Armenia kissed his rod. 
 
 Would put to shame The Very Shadow of God. 
 
 You must not therefore feel a pained surprise 
 
 At having Christian dogs for your allies ; 
 
 For there are gods and dogs ; and, though the base 
 
 Bull terrier irks you, 'tis a different case 
 
 When gentle dachshunds jump to your embrace. 
 
 If crudely you remark : " A holy win 
 May suit our friends, but where do we come in . 
 My answer is : " Apart from any boom 
 Islam secures by sealing England's doom, 
 We shall, if we survive the coming clash, 
 Collect papyrus notes (in lieu of cash) ; 
 And if we perish, as we may indeed, 
 We have a goodly future guaranteed, ^ 
 With houris waiting in Valhalla's pile 
 (Pardon my pseudo-Oriental style). 
 
 These are the joys, of which I give the gist, 
 Secured to those who trust the Kaiser s fast, 
 Which to the infidel is hard as nails 
 Or eagles' claws whereat the coney quails, 
 But to the Faithful, such as you, Senussi, 
 Is softer than the velvet paws of pussy. 
 
 36
 
 A Balkan Nursery Rhyme 
 
 " What does little birdie say 
 In her nest at break of day ? " 
 
 What does little Ferdie say- 
 In his tent behind the fray ? 
 " I'm afeared," says little Ferdie, 
 " I shall lose my head some day." 
 Ferdie, wait a little longer 
 Till the hate of you grows stronger, 
 And your nose a little longer — 
 You shall lose your head some day. 
 
 37
 
 Culture and the Colossus 
 
 [" A giant statue of Admiral von Tirpitz, similar to Berlin's 
 Hindenburg, for nailing purposes, will shortly be erected in 
 Wilhelmshafen. . . . The Grand Admiral is posing in uniform, 
 with oilskins, seaboots and sou'-wester . . . holding a telescope 
 in the left hand, while the right is reaching out for his instru- 
 ments. The'eyes are gazing into space, far away over the distant 
 seas, where the heroes of Germany's sea-power carry out his 
 orders. . . ." — Wilhelmshavener Zeitung. 
 
 The Berlin Academy of Art has protested against the scheme 
 " in the interests of the prestige of our German Art and Kultur." 
 
 High o'er the harbour where his squadrons ride 
 Collecting limpets on their leisured keels, 
 
 Snug in their dug-out, safely barred inside 
 
 From every wave that chops and wind that squeals, 
 
 Behold the effigy of Tirpitz graven 
 
 " For nailing purposes " at William's Haven ! 
 
 Colossal in his oilskins see him stand, 
 His giant trotters booted for the main ; 
 
 A telescope employs his larboard hand, 
 A rude sou'-wester tops his teeming brain, 
 
 And, fashioned on a supernatural scale, 
 
 His hoary whiskers creak before the gale. 
 38
 
 CULTURE AND THE COLOSSUS 
 
 Note, too, the gaze of that Tremendous Tar, 
 With what a searching eye he scans and scouts 
 
 The faint horizon's limits, ranging far 
 To get his High Sea Navy's whereabouts, 
 
 And finds the billowy prospect strangely bare 
 
 Because the High Sea Navy isn't there. 
 
 Meanwhile he stretches forth, to touch his gear, 
 A fist to starboard, so by wireless means 
 
 To let his views impinge upon the ear 
 Of any remnant of his submarines, 
 
 Bidding their brave commanders work his will, 
 
 And try to catch a few more babes to kill. 
 
 And worshippers, not waiting till he's dead, 
 Propose to hammer homage, fore and aft, 
 
 Into his frame, from heels to wooden head 
 
 (Brass homage for Old Brazen-Face), and graft 
 
 A wealth of pimples on the Grand Sea-Rover 
 
 With any nails that Hindenburg leaves over. 
 
 What though the pundits of Imperial Art 
 
 Lift a protesting academic bleat ? 
 This is the darling of the nation's heart, 
 
 Made lovelier by the Lusitania feat ; 
 The people cries for nails ! let none usurp its 
 Right to select the fitting meed for Tirpitz ! 
 
 39
 
 To the Pro-Shirkers 
 
 [Thirty-nine Members voted against the Second Reading of the 
 Military Service Bill.] 
 
 You that in civilian lobbies, 
 
 While the battle-thunder rolls, 
 Hug your little party hobbies, 
 So to save your little souls, 
 Treating England's deadly peril like a topic for the 
 polls ; 
 
 Half of you — the record's written — 
 
 Lately strode to Downing Street 
 And for love of Little Britain 
 Wallowed at the Premier's feet, 
 Urging him to check the wanton waste of our super- 
 fluous Fleet. 
 
 Had your passionate prayer been granted 
 
 And the Kaiser got his way, 
 Teuton crushers might be planted 
 On our hollow turns to-day, 
 And a grateful foe be asking what you want for traitors' 
 pay. 
 40
 
 TO THE PRO-SHIRKERS 
 
 Disappointed with the Navy, 
 You in turn were keen about 
 
 Putting Thomas in the gravy, 
 Leaving Thomas up the spout, 
 Lest if adequately aided he should wipe the straf ers out. 
 
 Well, our memories may be rotten, 
 Yet they'll stick to you all right ; 
 Not so soon shall be forgotten 
 
 Those whose hearts were fixed more tight 
 On the salvage of a fetish than the winning of the fight. 
 
 When the Bosches bite the gutter 
 And we let our tongues go loose, 
 Franker words I hope to utter 
 In the way of free abuse, 
 But at present I am badly hampered by the party 
 truce. 
 
 41
 
 Erzerum : A Set-Back in the Holy 
 
 War. 
 
 Kaiser to Sultan. 
 
 My Moslem brother, this is sad, sad news, 
 So sad that I permit myself to mention 
 How much it modifies my sanguine views 
 Of Allah's intervention. 
 
 In that combine for holy ends and high 
 
 Of which I let him figure as the joint head 
 I must (between ourselves) confess that I 
 Am greatly disappointed. 
 
 Without his help I did the Balkan stunt, 
 But when I left him to his own devices 
 To operate upon a local front 
 
 He failed me at the crisis. 
 
 I could not run the show in every scene, 
 
 Not all at once ; and Caucasus was chilly — 
 Fifty degrees of frost, which would have been 
 Bad for the health of Willie. 
 
 And then to think that he should let me down 
 
 When I was sore in need of heavenly comfort, 
 Making the Christian free of Erzerum town, 
 Which, as you know, is " some " fort. 
 42
 
 ERZERUM : A SET-BACK IN THE HOLY WAR 
 
 Not that I mind the mere material loss, 
 But poor Armenia, hitherto quiescent, 
 Who sees the barbarous brigands of the Cross 
 Trampling her trusted Crescent ! 
 
 True, you have spared the major part this pain, 
 
 But for the remnant, who escaped your heeding, 
 My heart (recovered, thank you, from Louvain), 
 Once more has started bleeding. 
 
 43
 
 For They Are Jolly Poor Fellows 
 
 [The fine example of patriotism shown by the Universities of 
 Oxford and Cambridge throws into painful relief the action of 
 some of the obscure remnant (including here and there a College 
 Fellow) who have excused themselves from service or adopted an 
 attitude of superior detachment in relation to the War.] 
 
 You Intellectuals of Cam and Isis, 
 
 Pale phantoms in the dawn of Freedom's light, 
 Who in this hour of England's deadly crisis 
 
 Haven't the conscience (or the heart) to fight ; 
 
 You cosmopolitans without a country, 
 
 Who go aloof on philosophic quests, 
 Sucking the fruit of knowledge from the Hun-tree 
 
 And spiritual milk from alien breasts ; 
 
 False to that Brotherhood who for the splendour 
 Of a great cause, with gallant hearts and gay, 
 
 Of youth and youth's high promise made surrender, 
 Because their courage knew the nobler way ; 
 
 I envy not your chance on their returning ; 
 
 When, scarred with war, they come from overseas, 
 There should be trouble in those Seats of Learning 
 
 Where you sat tight and took your pedants' ease. 
 
 Short shrift you'll get for your convenient scruples ; 
 
 Conducted thither where the wet stream winds 
 You shall receive as elementary pupils 
 
 An object-lesson good for little minds. 
 
 44
 
 FOR THEY ARE JOLLY POOR FELLOWS 
 
 Somewhere about the Guts of Cam and Isis, 
 May I be well in front to see you then 
 
 Taught by immersion what the local price is 
 To pay for being prigs instead of men. 
 
 45
 
 The Kaiser on Kilimanjaro 
 
 [Kilimanjaro, whose highest peak (19,000 feet) is named Kaiser 
 Wilhelm Spitze, was included in German East Africa at the special 
 desire of the Kaiser (then Prince William of Prussia). It appears 
 that he took a peculiar interest in the fauna and flora of that 
 district. The author of these lines does not claim a close acquaint- 
 ance with the natural history and botany of this region, and cannot 
 therefore vouch for the accuracy of his details.] 
 
 mountain of the sounding name, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 Almost as loud as my own fame, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 Plucked from my Empire's jewelled hem 
 
 1 deemed you once the fairest gem 
 In my Colonial diadem, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 Not for your height, though you are high, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 And practically scrape the sky, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 But for the beasts and birds and flowers 
 
 That nestle in your snowy bowers 
 
 I loved you best of all my dowers, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 In one of my Imperial jaunts, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 I looked to penetrate their haunts, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 46
 
 THE KAISER ON KILIMANJARO 
 
 It was among my dearest hopes 
 To slay canaries on your slopes 
 Or trap elusive antelopes 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 I had a passionate wish to snare 
 
 (Kilimanjaro !) 
 
 Your local beetle in his lair, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 O'er precipices stiff with ice 
 
 (Perils for me are full of spice) 
 
 To cull your starry edelweiss, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 Alas ! the lovely vision fades, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 Never amid your musky glades, 
 
 Kilimanjaro — 
 
 Never shall I (Gott strafe Smuts) ! 
 
 Surprise your monkeys gathering nuts 
 
 Or chase your wombats' flying scuts, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 And when, as I suppose it must, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 My spirit sheds its mortal crust, 
 
 Kilimanjaro! 
 They'll find beneath my mailed vest 
 Your name indelibly impressed 
 (Along with Calais) on my chest, 
 
 Kilimanjaro ! 
 
 47
 
 A Cure for Depression 
 
 Moments there are of transient gloom 
 
 When life for me appears to lose 
 Its rosy aspect and assume 
 
 The turnip's pessimistic hues ; 
 As when o' mornings, gazing out 
 
 Across my patch of fog-grey river, 
 I feel a twinge of poor man's gout 
 
 Or else a touch of liver ; 
 
 When enemy craft career above, 
 
 Unchallenged (till they've had their fling) 
 Or Little Willie's vernal shove 
 
 Anticipates the dawn of Spring ; 
 When Neutrals want an open door 
 
 Kept wide for their commercial dealings, 
 And we must risk to lose the War 
 
 Rather than hurt their feelings. 
 
 Such moments, making Hope look bleak, 
 
 And Courage turn a little blue, 
 Even with hearts as tough as teak 
 
 May well occur ; but, when they do, 
 This thought will readjust your bile 
 
 And prove the best of appetisers : — 
 Would I exchange (here's where you smile) 
 
 Our chances with the Kaiser's ? 
 
 48
 
 Teuton Overtures 
 
 As seen through Teuton Eyes. 
 
 These English — who can know their ways ? 
 When, flushed with triumphs large and many, 
 We condescend with tactful signs 
 To hint of peace on generous lines 
 They answer in a flippant phrase 
 That they're " not taking any." 
 
 When from our conquering High-Seas Ark 
 (Detained at home by stress of weather) 
 We loosed the emblematic dove, 
 Conveying overtures of love, 
 Back came the bird with that remark, 
 Minus its best tail feather. 
 
 They said they never wanted war ; 
 Yet, when we talk of war's abating, 
 And name the price for them to pay, 
 They have the curious nerve to say 
 That, when they please, and not before, 
 They'll do their own dictating. 
 
 49
 
 MADE IN ENGLAND 
 
 How can you deal with minds so slow, 
 With men who give no indication 
 That we by any further shock 
 Into their heads can hope to knock 
 Enough intelligence to know 
 That they're a beaten nation ? 
 
 Odd that we cannot make it clear 
 That we have won ; and even odder 
 That other markets seem to jump, 
 While our exchange is on the slump, 
 And everything's starvation-dear 
 (Excepting cannon-fodder). 
 
 5o
 
 Methods of a German Missionary 
 
 [Captured documents show that the German Government had 
 schemed to stamp out Mohammedanism in East Africa both by 
 force and by the encouragement of pig-breeding.] 
 
 The Sultan soliloquises : — 
 
 Mehmoud, the gilt is off your idol's crown ; 
 
 Clear shows the clay beneath the chipped enamel ; 
 In sporting phrase, your dibs have been planked down 
 On the wrong camel. 
 
 This William had a God he called his peer, 
 
 And yet must needs take on a new religion ; 
 Spoke well of Allah ; in His Shadow's ear 
 Cooed like a pigeon ; 
 
 Pressed you to join him in a Holy War ; 
 
 Advanced the wherewithal you badly needed ; 
 And taught you how to go for Christian gore 
 The same as he did. 
 
 And now, where Afric's fountains fling their balm, 
 
 In his last place within the sun, 'tis written 
 With how remote a love for dear Islam 
 Your Bosch was bitten. 
 
 51
 
 MADE IN ENGLAND 
 
 He hoped to stamp your creed out, branch and root ; 
 
 This missionary meant to take your Arabs 
 And crush their souls beneath his mailed boot 
 Like crawling scarabs. 
 
 And if they still ignored his ponderous heel, 
 
 If still their faith in Allah stood unshaken, 
 He looked to stimulate a local zeal 
 For heathen bacon ! 
 
 Mehmoud, it is too much ! Sick Man you are, 
 Yet in your veins I hope enough of vigour is 
 To tell this William he has gone too far 
 With his damned piggeries ! 
 
 5*
 
 Dress Economy and the Claims of Art 
 
 [To Lord Spencer on seeing his portrait by Mr. Orpen at the 
 Royal Academy.] 
 
 Here at the Press View, ere the opening day- 
 Admits the public on receipt of pay 
 
 And all the gallery like a murmurous shell hums, 
 I stand before your picture, awed and mute, 
 In reverent worship and an old, old suit 
 Of baggy ante-bellums. 
 
 For, when Britannia first in wrath arose, 
 I took a vow : — So long as these poor clo's 
 
 Together, though reduced to just a mesh, hold, 
 Never will I, till Victory's trump rings clear 
 (Save when I purchase military gear), 
 Cross any tailor's threshold. 
 
 Yet, gazing on the garb you figure in, 
 Shining and perfect as a new-born pin — 
 
 The frock-coat built to dazzle gods and men, Sir, 
 The virgin tie, the collar passing tall, 
 The flawless crease of trousers which recall 
 The prime of Bobby Spencer — 
 
 53
 
 MADE IN ENGLAND 
 
 I hesitate to blame your lack of thrift ; 
 
 I would not have your sacred feelings biffed 
 
 By harsh reflections from a patriot's war-pen ; 
 Those rich externals which arrest the view 
 Were but adopted as essential to 
 
 The scheme of Mr. Orpen. 
 
 Such was the sacrifice you made to Art ! 
 And there are other portraits, very smart — 
 
 Sitters who must have borne the same hard trial ; 
 Who waived their loyal taste for cheap attire 
 And went, superbly tailored, through the fire 
 Of noble self-denial. 
 
 54 

 
 More Peace-Talk in Berlin 
 
 To the War-Lord 
 
 "How beautiful upon the mountain-tops 
 
 Their feet would sound, the messengers of 
 Peace ! " 
 So into neutral ears your unction drops, 
 
 Hinting a pious hope that War may cease — 
 
 War, with its dreadful waste, 
 Which never suited your pacific taste. 
 
 Strange you should turn so suddenly humane, 
 So sick of ravage and the reek of gore ! 
 
 Dare we assume that Verdun's long-drawn strain 
 Makes you perspire at each Imperial pore ? 
 
 Or that your nerve's mislaid 
 Through cardiac trouble caused by our Blockade ? 
 
 You thought to finish on the high wave's crest ; 
 
 To say, "These lands that 'neath our sceptre lie — 
 Such as we want we'll keep, and chuck the rest, 
 
 And to the vanquished, having drained 'em dry, 
 We will consent to give, 
 
 Out of our clemency, the right to live." 
 
 55
 
 MADE IN ENGLAND 
 
 Then you came down a long, long way, and said, 
 " For pure desire of Peace, and that alone, 
 
 We'll deem the dead past buried with its dead, 
 Taking, in triumph's hour, a generous tone ; 
 
 Uplift the fallen foe 
 And affably restore the status quo." 
 
 Fool's talk and idle. In this Dance of Death 
 The man who called the piper's tune must pay, 
 
 Nor can he stop at will for want of breath. 
 
 Though War you chose, and chose its opening day, 
 
 It lies not in your power 
 To stay its course or fix its final hour. 
 
 BRADBURY, AGMEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.
 

 
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