Beersheba gone, and Gaza too!
And lo! the British lion,
After a pause to comb his mane,
Is grimly padding off again,
Tail up, _en route_ for Zion.

Yes, things are looking rather blue,
Just as in Mesopotamy;
My life-blood trickles in the sand;
My veins run dry; I cannot stand
Much more of this phlebotomy.

In vain for WILLIAM'S help I cry,
Sick as a mule with glanders;
Too busy--selfish swine--is he
With winning ground in Italy
And losing it in Flanders.

His missives urge me not to fly
But use the utmost fury
To hold these Christian dogs at bay
And for his sake to block the way
To his belovéd Jewry.

"My feet," he wired, "have trod those scenes;
Within the walls of Salem
My sacred presence deigned to dwell,
And I should hate these hounds of hell
To be allowed to scale 'em.