We, William, Kaiser, planted on Our throne

By heaven’s grace, but chiefly by Our own,

Do deign to speak. Then let the earth be dumb,

And other nations cease their senseless hum!

Seldom, if ever, does a chance arise

For Us to pose before Our people’s eyes;

But this is one of them, this natal day

Whereon Our Ancient and Imperial sway,

Which to the battle’s death-defying trump

Welded the States in one confounded lump,

(As many tasty meats are blent within

The German sausage’s encircling skin)

By Our decree is twenty-five precisely,

And, under Us (and God) still doing nicely.

Therefore ye Princelings, Plenipotentates,

And Representatives of various States,

A cool Imperial pint your Kaiser drains,

Both to Our ‘more immediate’ domains,

And to Our lands, Our isles beyond the sea,

Our World-embracing Greater Germany!

81

Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band,

We give a rouse––hoch! hoch!––to Helgoland!

There are that languish on this festal day

Damned and impounded for lÈse-majestÉ;

We, William, in Our plentitude of grace,

Propose to pardon every hundredth case;

And though their sentence was no more than just

We offer each a copy of Our bust,

With option of a fine; but, be it known,

Whoso again shall deem his life his own,

Or find in Ours the faintest flaw or fleck,

God helping, We will hang him by the neck.

Yea, he shall surely curse his impious star

That dares to question Who or where We are!

Worship your CÆsar, and (C.V.) your God;

Who spares the child may haply spoil the rod.

Many Our uniforms, but We are one,

And one Our empire over which the sun,

Careering on his cloud-compulsive way,

Sets once, but never more than once, a day.

82

The seas are Ours: world-wide upon the oceans

Our fleet commands the liveliest emotions;

Go where you will, you find Our German manners

Prevailing under other people’s banners;

Go where you will, you cannot but remark

The cheap, but never nasty, German clerk;

Observe Our exports; do you ever see

Things made as they are made in Germany?

Always at home on Earth’s remotest shores

E.g., among Our loved, low-German Boers,

Freely Our folk expectorate, and there

Our German bands inflame the balmy air;

Likewise again Our passionate bassoons

Tickle the niggers of the Cameroons;

Or others over whom Our Eagle flaps

In places not at present on the maps.

One more Imperial pint! your Kaiser drinks

To German intercourse with missing links!

Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band,

We give––hoch! hoch!––Our glorious Hinterland!