Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3821/An Imperial Overture
[From notes taken by a Brilish airman while engaged in hovering over the Kaiser's headquarters at ———. The name of the place is excised because the Press Bureau Authorities do not wish the Kaiser to be informed of his own whereabouts.]
Now let an awful silence hold the field,
And everybody else's mouth be sealed;
For lo! your Kaiser (sound the warning gong!)
Prepares to loose his clarion lips in song.
In time of War the poet gets his chance,
When even wingless Pegasi will prance;
Yet We, whose pinions oft outsoared the crow's,
Have hitherto confined Ourself to prose.
But who shall doubt that We could sing as well as
That warrior-bard Tyrtaeus, late of Hellas,
Who woke the Spartans up with words and chorus
Twenty-six centuries B.U. (Before Us)?
Also, since Truth is near allied to Beauty,
We are convinced that We shall prove more fluty
Than certain British scribes whom We have read
(Recently published by The Bodley Head).
Well, then, it is Our purpose to inflame
Our soldiers' arteries with lust of fame;
To give them something in the lyric line
That shall be tantamount to fumes of wine,
Yet not too heady, like the champagne (sweet)
That lately left them dormant in the street,
So that the British, coming up just then,
Took them for swine and not for gentlemen.
Rather we look to brace them, soul and limb,
With something in the nature of a hymn,
Which they may chant, assisted by the band,
While working backwards to the Fatherland.
Put to the air of Deutschland über alles
Or else to one of Our own sacred ballets,
The lilt of it should leave their hearts so fiery
That at at the finish they would make enquiry—
"What would our Attila to-day have done?"
And, crying "Havoc!" go and play the Hun.
For there are some cathedrals standing yet,
And heavy is the task to Culture set,
Ere We may lay aside the holy rod
Made to chastise the foes of Us and God.
And now that We are fairly in the vein
Let Us proceed to build the lofty strain.
Ho! bid the Muse to enter and salute.
The burnished toe of Our Imperial boot!
Hush! guns! and, ye howitzers, cease your fire!
We, William, are about to sound the lyre!
O. S.
Note.—Unfortunately the actual composition of which this is the preface has been censored, as likely to have a disintegrating effect upon the discipline of our forces at the front.