To guard and guide the death disks packed in the war head's hammered cone,
To drive the cask of the thin air flask as the gyroscope has shown.

My brother, the gun, shrieks o'er the sea his curse from the covered deck,
My brother, the mine, lies sullen-dumb, agape for the dreadnought's wreck,
I glide on the breath of my mother, Death, and my goal is my only check!

More strong than the strength of armored ships is the firing pin's frail
spark,
More sure than the helm of the mighty fleet are my rudders to their mark,
The faint foam fades from the bright screw blades--and I strike from the
under dark!

Death, our mother, gave us her three gray gifts from the sea--
(Cherish your birthright, Brothers!)--speed, cunning, and certainty.
And mailèd Mars, he blest us--but his blessing was most to me!




"God Punish England, Brother"

A New Hymn of Germany's Gospel of Hatred

[From Public Opinion, London, Feb. 5, 1915.]


The amazing outburst of hatred against England in Germany is responsible
for a new form of greeting which has displaced the conventional formulas
of salutation and farewell: "God punish England!" ("Gott strafe