"The crumbling towers, the shattered fanes,

The havoc of the Belgian plains;

Dead mothers, children, priests and nuns,

Who fall before My conquering Huns—

Believe Me, friends, these grievous woes

Deprive Me of My due repose,

And, though enforced by higher need,

Make My Imperial bosom bleed."

As the fat spider wipes its eye

Over each strangulated fly;

As Abdul Hamid once was fain

To weep for the Armenian slain;

As Haynau felt his eyelids drip

When women cowered beneath his whip;

As Torquemada doubtless bled

With sorrow for the tortured dead—

So in his own peculiar style

Weeps the Imperial Crocodile.