METHODS OF A GERMAN MISSIONARY.

Mehmoud, the gilt is off your idol's crown; Clear shows the clay beneath the chipped enamel; In sporting phrase, your dibs have been planked down On the wrong camel. This William had a God he called his peer, And yet must needs take on a new religion; Spoke well of Allah; in His Shadow's ear Cooed like a pigeon; Pressed you to join him in a Holy War; Advanced the wherewithal you badly needed; And taught you how to go for Christian gore The same as he did. And now, where Afric's fountains fling their balm, In his last place within the sun, 'tis written With how remote a love for dear Islam Your Bosch was bitten. He hoped to stamp your creed out, branch and root; This missionary meant to take your Arabs And crush their souls beneath his mailéd boot Like crawling scarabs. And if they still ignored his ponderous heel, If still their faith in Allah stood unshaken, He looked to stimulate a local zeal For heathen bacon! Mehmoud, it is too much! Sick Man you are, Yet in your veins I hope enough of vigour is To tell this William he has gone too far With his damned piggeries!