Oh, those were palmy days at Brest!
You had no sort of scruples then;
You knelt at ease on Russia's chest,
Dipped in her blood your iron pen,
Dictated terms the most abhorrent
And made her sign her own death-warrant.

At Bucharest 'twas much the same:
You had Roumania under heel;
No pity here nor generous shame,
But just the argument of steel,
The logic of the butcher's knife--
And so she signed away her life.

These object-lessons learnt by rote,
As once we learnt your poison-gas,
Your pupils now are shocked to note
How Teuton wits, a little crass,
Mistake for rude assault and battery
Our imitation's feeble flattery.

We could not copy, line for line,
The perfect models made by you;
Yet the ideals they enshrine
We dimly strove to keep in view,
Trying to draft, with broad effect,
The kind of Peace that you'd expect.

Our efforts miss the cultured touch
By which we saw your own inspired;