THE LAUGHING WILLOW

Here lies Willy’s mortal clay In its Mother Earth’s caresses. Willy’s soul has flown away— Where it is you have two guesses.

Here lies Bill, the son of Fred. He lied alive; he now lies dead.

Oh, stranger, dry the starting tear! Kaiser Bill is buried here.

’Neath this stone lies Kaiser Bill. He sought for peace—he seeks it still.

Here Wilhelm sleeps. For Mercy’s sake, Tread softly, friend, lest he should wake!

Swallow him, O Earth, for he, Did his best to swallow thee.

This is a Russian Wedding Feast; Counting the Groom, there are at least A hundred sitting down to dine, Or let us call it ninety-nine: For more than that there is no room, And no one ever counts the Groom!

The Mujik wears a costume weird Consisting of a fuzzy beard, A sheep-skin blouse (the wool inside) And breeks astonishingly wide, Made from the fur of North sea Whales, And Yak-hide boots with big brass nails.

The Cossack is so much at home Upon his horse, that though he roam From Vladivostok to Odessa, His wife has only to address a Letter to Ivan “care his Horse” To catch her Spouse, unless of course, As sometimes happens, Ivan may Have swapped addresses on the way.

Without a doubt the Samovar The Steppes and Russian Sables are Of all things Russian the best known; So in this picture I have shown

A Sable sitting on a flight Of Russian Steppes, before a bright New Samovar, calm as can be, Brewing a cup of Russian Tea.

I Come into the cellar, Maud. Get a move on! Goodness gracious, There is nothing to applaud In bravado ostentatious! Still Maud lingered, all unheeding, As the Siren sounded twice; Above the din her voice came pleading, “Are you sure there’s no mice?” II Above the pandemonium Of Siren shrill and warning Drum And Aircraft Gun is heard the roar Of little Freddy, ætat four; The cellar dark and dank and dim No fascination has for him, The little darling wants to be Upstairs upon the roof and see The “fireworks!” “If you ask me—” Aunt Kate was overheard to say, “I’d let the dear child have his way!” III A hidden Crime, however slight, Is sure some day to see the light; Oh, why did Auntie come to stay With us upon an Air-raid day! Why did we never think to tell her That there were Lizards in the cellar Or Spiders or an Open Drain! How shall we ever now explain That “Antique Vase” we said was lost, That Nile green horror, gold embossed, Her Wedding Present—there it lay Before her eyes, as plain as day! We almost wished a bomb would fall Upon the house and end it all! IV Who is that cowardly Jack Horner Crouching there in the darkest corner, Behind the furnace? Look again, That is no cringing coward, when Your eyes become accustomed to The darkness of the cellar, you Will see it is no other than Philander Jones and Marian; Make no mistake, Philander’s dread Is not a Zeppelin overhead, But that rude moment when he’ll hear The beastly Siren sound “All’s clear!” V “Where is Molly?” Like a Shell, Short and sharp, the question fell, Scattering every one pell mell From the cellar’s safe retreat Through the house on panic feet, Basement, Attic—everywhere They sought, one hope remained and there On the Drying-roof they found her, Shrapnel flashing all around her, Calm and cool ’mid war’s alarms, Hugging something in her arms. “I’s all right—don’t cwy!” said Molly, “I tame back to det my dolly!”

Well! Well! so you’ve been fired, You’ve lost your job at last. It’s high time you retired, Old Boy, you’re failing fast.

You’re getting old, you know it, You are not in the race. Admit you cannot go it, The killing, modern pace. Your methods are too dull for The modern school of Hate, Your lake of burning sulphur Is sadly out of date. The Hohenzollern’s Kultur Mocks at your fiery pits, His double-headed vulture Has put yours on the fritz. Beside the fierce, blaspheming, Mail-fisted Kaiser Bill, You are a seraph beaming, An angel of good-will. But tho’ we can’t deny, sir, You’re hopelessly outclassed, You’ve one thing on the Kaiser, Which is, tho’ first and last

A failure as a devil, Yet boast of this you can: You were always on the level— And—you are a gentleman!

A certain Emperor (This is a censored tale) Once pounded on the door Of heaven with fist of mail.

Cried Peter from within, Awakened by the row, “Stop that infernal din! Who are you, anyhow?” “Don’t bandy words with me!” Thundered the visitor. “All doors to me are free. I am the Emperor.” “If you’re an Emperor,” Said Peter, “then I fear You’ve come to the wrong floor. We take no Emperors here. “Our waiting list is filled With martyrs brave and true Whose blood an Emperor spilled. There is no room for you.” Cowed by Saint Peter’s look, The Emperor, with a frown, Cried, “Well, I’m damned!” and took The elevator—down.

We come from God’s own country in the ships of Uncle Sam; We’re going to get the william-goat of Kaiser Will—i—am; We know it is verboten, but we do not give a damn, As we go marching to Berlin! (Drums) Berlin! Berlin! Berlin! Berlin! Berlin! As we go marching to Berlin! Refrain Hurray! Hurray! We’ll wave the Stripes and Stars! Away, away with Emperors and Czars! And when we get the Kaiser we’ll put him behind the bars, As we go marching to Berlin! (Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc. We’re from the dear old U. S. A., the Land of Liberty; We’ve crossed a hundred rivers and three thousand miles of sea To teach the Huns a thing or two about Democracy, As we go marching to Berlin! (Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc. Refrain Hurray! Hurray! We’ll show the Prussian swine That Freedom is the only Right Divine, And when we catch old Kaiser Bill we’ll pitch him in the Rhine, As we go marching to Berlin! (Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc. We’ve left our happy homes that we may help to win the war. We’re a million strong already, and there’ll soon be millions more; And when the job is done with Kaiser Bill we’ll mop the floor, As we go marching to Berlin! (Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc. Refrain Hurray! Hurray! We’re going to make it hot For all the bloody Hohenzollern lot, And when we get the Kaiser we’ll present him to his Gott, As we go marching to Berlin! (Drums) Berlin! Berlin! Berlin! Berlin! Berlin! As we go marching to Berlin!

At the Imperial Schützenfest Fritz Pickelheim led all the rest;

At target practice Pickelheim Could hit the Red Cross every time; At the clay-baby contest Fritz Scored nineteen out of twenty hits;

And once he won the Kaiser’s purse With nine live babies and a nurse.

I often wonder, when we fry A Sausage, if its thoughts can fly

Across the billowy ocean wave To where its namesake stern and brave Floats like a Guardian Angel, high Above our armies, in the sky, Serene and stately as a cloud. No wonder Sausages are proud! No wonder Sausages when fried Oft-times swell up and burst with pride!

I When Crown Prince Willy goes to bed It is his wont to lay his head Upon the pillow and extend His feet towards the other end. “But does he really wear his hat In bed?” you ask—well, as to that I cannot say, I never saw him, But that’s the way I always draw him. II The thing that Germans most admire Is Crownie’s coolness under fire. He loves to watch it gleam and glow ’Mid fragrant smoke, an inch or so Above his nose as he reclines In some Château behind the lines; If the Crown Prince had his desire He would be always under fire! III When you or I get up at eight We do not have to cogitate And rack our brains concerning just Which suit to wear, as Princes must; The Crown Prince has a hundred suits, Including hats and belts and boots, Yet such his master-mind, he knows Which he must wear and just what goes With what, which chevron, sash or sword, Each in his Royal Head is stored, Down to the detail of a spur, All in a Nut-shell, as it were! IV Here is a most uncensored sight! The Prince, in garb Pre-Adamite Taking (but tell it not in Gath) A good old English shower-bath!

V The Prince’s shy and shrinking habit Has earned for him the nickname “Rabbit.” This irritates His Highness more Than all his country’s grief and gore, It hurts his amour propre, for it’s A clear case of the “Cap that fits.” But don’t you think, however funny, It’s rather rough upon the Bunny?

If you can stand upon one spot And look like something you are not And wouldn’t if you could be—say A Bean-bag or a Bale of Hay— You’ll find it quite a useful stunt To practise on the Western Front; This picture shows how Private Dunne, Disguised as snow, deceived the Hun, Who could not possibly see through The Camouflage: no more can you!

The Tank’s a kind of cross between An Agricultural Machine And something fierce and Pliocene; Over embankments, trees, and walls, Trenches, barbed-wire, and forts it crawls; Nothing can stay its course—the Tank Has not the least respect for Rank Or File; with equal joy it squashes All things alike, men, beasts, and—Boches.

The Bird-man does not chirp and sing As Larks and Robins do in Spring, He does not moult nor does he feed On Earthworms or Canary-seed,

Nor does the Bird-man build a nest In which his weary wings to rest; At night, instead, when he goes home To roost, he seeks an Aërodrome.

Mistress of the Trident dread, With the brow of Artemis, Like Minerva, helmeted, Seven Seas her sandals kiss.

Throbs a mighty heart withal Beneath her armour of Disdain. Not for naught did Belgium call, Servia has not cried in vain. When the gauge of Hate was hurled, Seven seas at her behest, From the corners of the world Brought the bravest and the best. From the utmost ends of earth, On their tireless waves they bore, To the Europe of their birth, Legions of the land and air, Spurning Peace, till Peace has brought Hohenzollern to his fall, And with the blood of Freemen bought A Place in Freedom’s Sun for all.

“You are old, Father Wilhelm,” the Crown Prince said, “And the hair’s growing thin on your pate; Do you think you are perfectly right in your head— The way you’ve been acting of late?” “In my youth,” Father Wilhelm replied to his son, “I hated my honour to stain But, now that I’m perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.” “You are old,” said the Prince, “and you’re getting quite bent, And rheumatic, yet only just now, You turned a back somersault into your tent— Pray why did you do it, and how?” “In my youth,” Kaiser Wilhelm replied to the Prince, “I kept all my muscles in training; And I’ve practised one thing that I learned, ever since— And that’s to go in when it’s raining.” “You are old,” said the Prince, “and your head is too light For anything stronger than water; Yet you talk without ceasing from morning till night; Do you think, at your age, that you oughter?” “In my youth,” said the Kaiser, “I lived upon raw Spanish onions, I ate with my knife; And the strength that those onions gave to my jaw Has lasted the rest of my life.” “You are old,” said the Kronprins, “and one would suppose, You would be just a little more humble; Yet you balance your crown on the end of your nose. Aren’t you frightened some day it will tumble?”

“Your questions, my boy, are getting too free,” The Kaiser with anger protested— “Your impudence borders on Lésé Majesté; Be off, or I’ll have you arrested.”

Major Fritz-Schinkenwurst Hofbrau Von Beers Was the pride and the joy of the Pruss Grenadiers. You’ve guessed him a Prussian, shrewd reader, at sight, And a glance at his manners will prove you are right. In his fervour for “Frightfulness” Major Von Beers Acknowledged no betters and precious few peers. And every one envied his well-earned repute For arson and pillage and rapine and loot. No symphony held such delectable tones For the ears of Von Beers as the shrieks and the groans Of women and children bombarded with shell, Or the crash of a hospital tumbling pell-mell. One day from Berlin came the order “Refrain For the present from Frightfulness. Start Press Campaign. Von Bernstorff has wired we’re getting in wrong With the Yankees, so play up HUMANITY strong.” Loud, loud were the wailings of Hofbrau Von Beers. But duty is duty, so drying his tears, He purchased a volume by Peter F. Dunne On “How to be Civilised, though you’re a Hun.” He swatted up Honour, and Peace and Good-will For a year seven months and a fortnight until, You’ll scarcely believe it, that Hun I declare Acquired a sort of a civilised air. It was balky, spasmodic and apt to take flight When a press correspondent was nowhere in sight. It was clumsy, uncertain and crude, I’m aware, Yet distinctly suggested a civilised air. He started at once a colossal campaign And filled correspondents with fibs and champagne, And the press correspondents all voted Von Beers A prince of good fellows, ’mid deafening cheers. Thenceforth when a soldier forgot to salute, Von Beers would use kindness instead of his boot. And he lectured a laggard he’d rather have shot, If a newspaper man chanced to be on the spot.

If a sentinel, smoking, he happened to catch, Instead of a hiding he gave him a match. A caress took the place of a clout on the ear, That is, when a war correspondent was near. He distributed photos of Godfearing Huns Feeding babies with Beef Broth, Bananas and Buns, And snapshots of Willie that caught his gay glance And others depicting him weeping for France. The fame of Von Hofbrau spread over the land, And rich Lady nurses proposed for his hand,

And the Kaiser, All Highest, ’mid deafening tears Pinned a cast-iron Halo on Major Von Beers.

I Ah, Franz! Could you and I with Gott conspire To grab this sorry little globe entire, Would we not shatter it to bits, and then Remould it nearer to our heart’s desire? II You all know how, the world to overwhelm I made a second Sparta of my realm And “dropped the Pilot” from my ship of State To lay my own mailed fist upon the helm. III And how myself did eagerly frequent Councils of war and heard great argument About it and about, and every year Came out with great and greater armament. IV For though in ME and MINE I set great store And THEE and THINE are terms that I abhor, Of all that one should care to fathom, I Was never deep in anything but—war. V Bernhardi, Nietzsche, Treitschke, who discussed Of the “Next War,” so wisely, they are thrust Like foolish prophets forth, their words to scorn Are scattered and their mouths are stopped with dust. VI With them the seed of warfare did I sow, And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow. And this is all the Harvest I have reaped: “I came like thunder—and like wind I go!” VII And lately from Hell’s Cavern Door rose up A shape Titanic, ravening to sup On Living Human Fodder, and he bade Me give him taste of it; and ’twas—The Krupp. VIII The Krupp that can with Logic absolute The plans of modern Strategists confute The steel iconoclast that in a trice The strongest Fortress into Dust transmute. IX The Krupp no question makes of Aye and No, But strikes alike Cathedral or Château And I who send it out into the Field— I know about it all—I know—I know! X And much as War has made an infidel Of me, and robbed me of my honour, well I often wonder what the Devil has One half so devilish as I—In Hell! XI Ah, but my innovations people say Placed war upon a sounder basis? Nay, ’Twas only striking from War’s lexicon The terms TRUTH, HONOUR, DECENCY, FAIR PLAY. XII The Treaties that I set my seal upon Are turned to dust and ashes, which anon Like snowflakes falling in a muddy street Lighting a little hour or two are gone. XIII What if my sword can fling the Sheath aside And naked plunge into the crimson tide, Were’t not a shame, were’t not a shame for me, By a “mere scrap of paper” to abide? XIV Indeed, indeed, continually I swore For Peace—but was I solemn when I swore? And then—then came the Day and sword in hand My threadbare piety apieces tore. XV From Europe’s centre, through the Belgian gate I rode and at the Door of Paris sate. And many a city ravished by the road, But Paris—she is still immaculate. XVI Here was the Gate to which I found no key; Here was the Wall o’er which I might not see. Some little talk awhile of strategy There was, and then—good afternoon, Paree!

“Can you spare a Threepenny bit, Dear Miss Turkey,” said Sir Mouse, “For Job’s Turkey’s benefit? I’ve engaged the Opera House!” “Alas! I’ve naught to spare!” Said Miss Turkey, “save advice, I am getting up a Fair, To relieve the Poor Church Mice.”

In the cloisters of the grass, Lit by buttercups and daisies, Celebrants of summer mass, Little creatures sing their praises. From a myriad throbbing throats Rises up their song of Love, Like a mist of golden motes, To the Golden Throne above. And the good Lord, bending nigh, Quite forgets his house of stone Where the frightened sinners cry, And the frowning priests intone, And the saints (if saints they be) Smile and smile in effigy.