favorite drink
    But do not know his bard;
I'm sure it is not Schiller
    Who reigns in German homes.
Nor yet Olympian Goethe,
    Who writes the Kaiser's poems.

Perhaps that Heinrich Heine
    Has touched the Kaiser's soul;
Or Arndt with his trumpet call
    Like a new conscription roll;
Or, Walther von der Vogelweide
    With his nest in mythic domes,
Is the author and creator
    Of the Kaiser's favorite poems.

If I saw the Kaiser's library
    I'd know well what he reads—
The color of his fancy
    And the prompter of his deeds:
I'd learn the depth and wisdom
    Of his theories and his gnomes,
If I got but just a glance or two
    At the Kaiser's favorite poems.

Then let us go to Essen,
    Where the Kaiser's books are bound;
They are full of "steel" engravings—
    All "best sellers" there are found;
For the Prussian soul and spirit
    Speaks in rhythm thro' those tomes,
And these without a question,
    Are the Kaiser's favorite poems.

For Rt. Hon. David Lloyd-George.

LOUVAIN

A shrine, where saints and scholars met
    And held aloft the torch of truth,
Lies smouldering 'neath fair Brabant's skies,
    A ruined heap—war's prize in sooth!
The Pilates of Teutonic blood
    That fired the brand and flung the bomb
Now wash their hands of evil deed,
    While all the world stands ghast and dumb.

Is this your culture, sons of Kant,
    And ye who kneel 'round Goethe's throne?
To carry in your knapsacks death?
    To feel for man nor ruth nor moan?
What 'vails it now your mighty guns
    If God be mightier in the sky?
What 'vail your cities, walls and towers
    If half your progress be a lie?

The smoking altars, ruined arch
    Of ancient church and Gothic fane
Have felt the death stings of your shells,
    And speak in pity thro' Louvain.
Wheel back your guns, your howitzers melt,
    Forget your "World-Power's" cursed plan
And sign in peace and not in blood
    Dread Sinai's pact 'twixt God and Man.

For His Eminence Cardinal Merrier.

THE KAISER'S BHOYS

O, the Kaiser's bhoys are marching, "nach Paris" they are going,
But they've sthopped to rest a minit at the Marne and at the Meuse;
And the Gordons and the Ministers are thryin' to entertain them,
For they've every kind of "record" that the Teutons want to choose;
They have battle cries that sounded for centuries in the Highlands,
They have war cries fierce and stirring as the breath of Munster gales;
They are shoutin' to the heavens, and they're shoutin' to the Kaiser,
"Faugh-a-ballagh!" sons of Odin, or we'll tie you up like bales.

O, the Kaiser's bhoys are dramin' of a naval base at Calais,
But they wakin' ivery mornin' full of sorrow and of gloom;
For the little Belgian sojers cut the dykes and flood their trenches,
And they find their dugouts only jist a bathtub or a tomb.
But they're makin' progress backward, "nach Berlin" they are going,
With their "Landsturms" and their "Land-wehrs,"
            keepin' sthep in dim grey line;
And they'll know far more of Britain and her brood of lions snarlin',
When they find themselves "su Hause" jist beyant
            "Die Wacht am Rhein."

For John E. Redmond, M.P.