THE LAUGHING WILLOW

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!”

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Is sadly out of date.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

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.

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 clay-baby contest Fritz

Scored nineteen out of twenty hits;

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!

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.

“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?”