Some claim ideals on the loftiest level;
Peace (and a fig for Honour) is their lay--
Peace and the Brotherhood of man and devil;
They love all sorts beneath the sun--
Even an Englishman; but best a Hun.

They save the choicest of their tears to shed
For those who break all laws divine and human;
They'd bid the dead past cover up its dead,
Forgetful of our murdered, child and woman;
Forgetful of our drowned who sleep
Without a grave beneath the wandering deep.

I know not how or when this War will close,
But this I know: unless my brain goes rotten,
Never will I clasp hand with hand of those,
False to their blood, who'd have these things forgotten,
Who want a peace untimely made
Before the uttermost account is paid.

Thirty years on, when weak with age, I might
Possibly talk to some repentant Teuton;
But, while I still can tell a knave at sight
And have enough of strength to keep a boot on,
Only in one way will I get
In touch with samples of the Bolo Set.

O.S.

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