Even Barbara Henderson’s brilliant translation of this epic of spleen, the first version of which to be published in Great Britain it was my privilege to reprint in _The Daily Mail_ from the columns of the _New York Times_, fails to do justice to the innate rancor and gall of Lissauer’s original verses. Americans who visited Germany during the war were unanimous in agreeing that no rendering of the _Hymn of Hate_ in English could possibly interpret its consuming spirit. You had to hear it rasped with the ferocity of snarling, guttural German, they would say, to gain even an approximate idea of its power. You had to watch a man or woman recitationist or singer, for it was set to music, too, bawl it out, in a crescendo of passionate fury as the final word of each stanza, _England!_ was reached. You had to sit in the midst of a theater, café or music-hall audience, or even in a drawing-room, and note all around you the frenzied countenances, the clenched fists, the whole enraged being, of men, women and children, to know how Lissauer’s ballad of gall had burnt itself into a people’s soul. There have been more or less sincere efforts in Germany to banish the _Hymn of Hate_. Lissauer having previously received the Iron Cross for poetic gallantry, and from the pulpit and the school rostrum the unrighteousness of hate had been sanctimoniously proclaimed. But Lissauer only put into verse the spirit which maddened Berlin on the night of August 4, 1914, which grew in intensity as the magnitude of British intervention in the war slowly dawned, and which, surface manifestations to the contrary notwithstanding, lingers deep and ineffaceable in the German breast, and will remain there, barring a miracle, for generations after the war is over.