What's that that bursts upon my ear,

That overwhelming song I hear,

That sound of fear?

Though brave my men and wary,

They've been done by "Tipperary;"

Why did I make this war?

It's in my brain by day, by night,

In vain, in vain I take to flight,

I'll hear it evermore—

That song! That song!

It's a long way to get to Paree,

It's a long way to go;

It's the wrong way through little Belgium,

The wrongest way we know.

Good-bye, Kaiser Billy;

Farewell, O mein Herr;

It's a long, long way to St. Helena,

But your home's right there!

When first the champions were listed,

When first the shells began to fall,

Some trace of animus existed

Between the Teuton and the Gaul;

King William was extremely callous,

Nay, even found a certain zest

In riding from his Potsdam palace

To show his purple to the West.

But what a charm the Frenchman carries!

His compliments how wide they range!

Before King William got to Paris

His feelings underwent a change:

"Our ancient feud against the Latin,"

He said, "has sensibly decreased;"

And rising from the trench he sat in

He moved his umbrage to the East.

He trampled on the Polish border;

He cried that Russia was the foe;

The German Press received the order

And answered meekly, "That is so;"

But when King William met the Tartar

His soul sustained another wrench,

He found the Slavs were even smarter

At entertainments than the French.

They gave him such a royal greeting

With Cossack horsemen making curves

That William asked them, on retreating,

To try his Prussian game preserves;

"Duke Nicholas is not the canker,"

He told his German scribblers then;

"His treatment has disarmed my rancour"

(It certainly disarmed his men).

"Out yonder in the circling billows

There lies the object of my scorn,

We hate these English armadilloes,

We wish they never had been born;

Their name to us is rank and fetid,

And on their sins our rage is fed;"

And all the German Press repeated

Precisely what the Kaiser said.

Eh well. That water is a worry!

And doubtless, if the iron glove

Should meet us here in Kent or Surrey,

Its clasp might soften into love;

We might despatch him with a grey grin,

And all the German Scribes would vow

"Our bugbear is the Montenegrin;

We do not hate the English now."

But better still to cool his dudgeon

Where week by week our nobler sons

Have proved Britannia's no curmudgeon

By salvoes of applauding guns;

To save him toil without his landing,

To meet him with more warm advance,

And help to share that "understanding"

He has with Russia and with France.