That print has also played A useful part that sent an invitation To Redmond to relieve the situation (Answer prepaid). Say, Sirs, and shall we sever? And mar the fair exchange of fatted steers, Chicago pig, and eligible peers? No! never, never! Shall gore be made to flow? Like kindred Sohrabs shall we knock our Rustums, And blast our beautiful McKinley customs? Lord love us! no! Then, burst the sundering bar! Our punctured pockets yearn across the ocean; Till now we never had the faintest notion How dear you are! O love of other years! Wall Street, aweary for her broken bliss, Waits like a loving crocodile to kiss Again with tears! XI. TO THE LORD OF POTSDAM. [On sending a certain telegram.] Majestic Monarch! whom the other gods, For fear of their immediate removal, Consulting hourly, seek your awful nod's Approval; Lift but your little finger up to strike, And lo! 'the massy earth is riven' (Shelley), The habitable globe is shaken like A jelly. By your express permission for the last Eight years the sun has regularly risen; And editors, that questioned this, have passed To prison. In Art you simply have to say, "I shall!" Beethoven's fame is rendered transitory; And Titian cloys beside your clever all- -egory. We hailed you Admiral: your eagle sight Foresaw Her Majesty's benign intentions; A uniform was ready of the right Dimensions. Your wardrobe shines with all the shapes and shades, That genius can fix in fancy suitings; For _levées_, false alarums, full parades And shootings. But save the habit marks the man of gore Your spurs are yet to win, my callow Kaiser! Of fighting in the field you know no more Than I, Sir! When Grandpapa was thanking God with hymns For gallant Frenchmen dying in the ditches, Your nurse had barely braced your little limbs In breeches. And doubtless, where he roosts beside his bock, The Game Old Bird that played the leading fiddle Smiles grimly as he hears your perky cock- -a-diddle. Be well advised, my youthful friend, abjure These tricks that smack of Cleon and the tanners; And let the Dutch instruct a German Boor In manners. Nor were you meant to solve the nations' knots, Or be the Earth's Protector, willy-nilly; You only make yourself and royal Pots- -dam silly. Our racing yachts are not at present dressed In bravery of bunting to amuse you, Nor can the licence of an honoured guest Excuse you. But if your words are more than wanton play And you would like to meet the old sea-rover, Name any course from Delagoa Bay To Dover. Meanwhile observe a proper reticence; We ask no more; there never was a rumour Of asking Hohenzollerns for a sense Of humour! XII. FROM THE LORD OF POTSDAM.