Volume 153 — OUR PACIFISTS.

Far as my humble daily round extends, There's none but longs to see us lay the foe low; I cannot trace upon my list of friends A solitary instance of a Bolo; So that I've sometimes nursed a doubt Whether there are such lots of them about. But now, when that Gazette in which I read (To learn its views on any given matter And so avoid 'em) hints that no such breed Exists among us, save in idle chatter, I am convinced the country reeks With these unnatural and noisome freaks. Only the worst are out for German pay; Some claim ideals on the loftiest level; Peace (and a fig for Honour) is their lay— Peace and the Brotherhood of man and devil; They love all sorts beneath the sun— Even an Englishman; but best a Hun. They save the choicest of their tears to shed For those who break all laws divine and human; They'd bid the dead past cover up its dead, Forgetful of our murdered, child and woman; Forgetful of our drowned who sleep Without a grave beneath the wandering deep. I know not how or when this War will close, But this I know: unless my brain goes rotten, Never will I clasp hand with hand of those, False to their blood, who'd have these things forgotten, Who want a peace untimely made Before the uttermost account is paid. Thirty years on, when weak with age, I might Possibly talk to some repentant Teuton; But, while I still can tell a knave at sight And have enough of strength to keep a boot on, Only in one way will I get In touch with samples of the Bolo Set. O.S.