Volume 152 — THE HOHENZOLLERN PROSPECT.

When I've surveyed with half-shut eyes, Over the winking Champagne wine, What I shall do when Father dies And hands me down his right divine, Often I've said that, when in God's Good time he goes, I mean to show 'em How scorpions sting in place of rods, Taking my cue from REHOBOAM. But now with Liberty on the loose, And All the Russias capped in red, And Demos hustling like the deuce, And Tsardom's day as good as dead— When on the Dynasty they dance And with the Imperial Orb play hockey, I feel that LITTLE WILLIE'S chance Looks, at the moment, rather rocky. Not that the Teuton's stolid wits Are built to plan so rude a plot; Somehow I cannot picture Fritz Careering as a sansculotte; Schooled to obedience, hand and heart, I can imagine nothing odder Than such behaviour on the part Of inoffensive cannon fodder. And yet one never really knows. You cannot feed his massive trunk On fairy tales of beaten foes Or HINDENBURG'S "victorious" bunk; And if his rations run too short Through this accursed British blockade Even the worm may turn and sport A revolutionary cockade. Well, at the worst, I have my loot; And if, in search of healthier air, We Hohenzollerns do a scoot, There's wine and women everywhere; And, for myself, I frankly own A taste for privacy; I should rather Not face the high light on a throne— But O my poor, my poor old Father! O.S.