To The True-Born Briton

    (After Peace Night)

    Dear Sir, or Madam,
    As the case may be,
    When Britain first,
    At Heaving's command,
    Arose from out
    The azure main,
    This was the chawter
    Of that land
    And gawdian a-a-a-a-angels
    Sang this strain:
    Don't you think so?
    For my own part,
    I am quite sure of it:
    Monday night convinced me.
    Mafeking night,
    As you may remember,
    Was a honeyed
    And beautiful affair.
    But
    Peace night,
    I think,
    Really outdid it in splendours.
    At the cafe
    Which I most frequent,
    All was Peace.
    Round the table next mine,
    There were seventeen Jews,
    With a Union Jack.
    Ever and anon
    (Between drinks, as it were),
    They held up
    That Union Jack
    And yelled:
        "Shend him victoriouth,
        'Appy and gloriouth,
        Long to-o reign over uth,
        &c., &c."
    I wonder, my dear Sir, or Madam,
    Why the Jews are so pleased:
    I can't make it out.
    Howsomever,
    Pleased they are,
    And a pleased Jew
    Is worth a king's ransom,
    Or words to that effect.
    Peace, my dear Sir, or Madam,
    Is a chaste and choice
    Thing.

    Outside the aforesaid cafe,
    The crowd
    Was so numerous
    And exuberant
    That I was compelled
    (Much to my annoyance, of course)
    To remain inside
    Till closing-time.
    Then I went home
    In the friendly embrace
    Of a four-wheeler.
    For a little while,
    There was much shouting and yelling and roaring and squeaking and singing;
    And then I knew
    No more.
    My cab
    Bowled away
    Through the sweet evening air
    (That is to say,
    If the common or Regent Street growler
    Ever does bowl away),
    And all the time
    I snored.
    Duly awakened
    Outside my bungalow,
    I raked up the fare,
    And, in reply to kind enquiries
    In the hall,
    I remarked:
    "Peace, O woman of mine,
    Peace!"