How will you fare, sonny, how will you fare
    In the far-off winter night,
  When you sit by the fire in an old man’s chair
    And your neighbours talk of the fight? 
  Will you slink away, as it were from a blow,
    Your old head shamed and bent? 
  Or say—­I was not with the first to go,
    But I went, thank God, I went!

  Why do they call, sonny, why do they call
    For men who are brave and strong? 
  Is it naught to you if your country fall,
    And Right is smashed by Wrong? 
  Is it football still and the picture show,
    The pub and the betting odds,
  When your brothers stand to the tyrant’s blow
    And England’s call is God’s?

DIES IRAE
[Sidenote:  Owen Seaman in “Punch"]

To the German Kaiser

  Amazing Monarch! who at various times,
    Posing as Europe’s self-appointed saviour,
  Afforded copy for our ribald rhymes
        By your behaviour;

  We nursed no malice; nay, we thanked you much,
    Because your head-piece, swollen like a tumour,
  Lent to a dullish world the needed touch
        Of saving humour.

  What with your wardrobes stuffed with warrior gear,
    Your gander-step parades, your prancing Prussians,
  Your menaces that shocked the deafened sphere
        With rude concussions;

  Your fist that turned the pinkest rivals pale
    Alike with sceptre, chisel, pen or palette,
  And could at any moment, gloved in mail,
        Smite like a mallet;

  Master of all the Arts, and, what was more,
    Lord of the limelight-blaze that let us know it—­
  You seemed a gift designed on purpose for
        The flippant poet.

  Time passed and put to these old jests an end;
    Into our open hearts you found admission,
  Ate of our bread and pledged us like a friend
        Above suspicion.

  You shared our griefs with seeming-gentle eyes;
    You moved among us, cousinly entreated,
  Still hiding, under that fair outward guise,
        A heart that cheated.

  And now the mask is down, and forth you stand
    Known for a King whose word is no great matter,
  A traitor proved, for every honest hand
        To strike and shatter.

  This was the “Day” foretold by yours and you
    In whispers here, and there with beery clamours—­
  You and your rat-hole spies and blustering crew
        Of loud Potsdamers.

  And lo, there dawns another, swift and stern,
    When on the wheels of wrath, by Justice’ token
  Breaker of God’s own Peace, you shall in turn
        Yourself be broken.

FOR THE RED CROSS
[Sidenote:  Owen Seaman in “Punch"]

  Ye that have gentle hearts and fain
    To succour men in need,
  There is no voice could ask in vain
    With such a cause to plead—­
  The cause of those that in your care,
    Who know the debt to honour due,
  Confide the wounds they proudly wear,
    The wounds they took for you.