The Rubaiyat of Billi Kaisam

I

Ah, Franz! Could you and I with Gott conspire
To grab this sorry little globe entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits, and then
Remould it nearer to our heart’s desire?

II

You all know how, the world to overwhelm
I made a second Sparta of my realm
And “dropped the Pilot” from my ship of State
To lay my own mailed fist upon the helm.

III

And how myself did eagerly frequent
Councils of war and heard great argument
About it and about, and every year
Came out with great and greater armament.

IV

For though in ME and MINE I set great store
And THEE and THINE are terms that I abhor,
Of all that one should care to fathom, I
Was never deep in anything but—war.

V

Bernhardi, Nietzsche, Treitschke, who discussed
Of the “Next War,” so wisely, they are thrust
Like foolish prophets forth, their words to scorn
Are scattered and their mouths are stopped with dust.

VI

With them the seed of warfare did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow.
And this is all the Harvest I have reaped:
“I came like thunder—and like wind I go!”

VII

And lately from Hell’s Cavern Door rose up
A shape Titanic, ravening to sup
On Living Human Fodder, and he bade
Me give him taste of it; and ’twas—The Krupp.

VIII

The Krupp that can with Logic absolute
The plans of modern Strategists confute
The steel iconoclast that in a trice
The strongest Fortress into Dust transmute.

IX

The Krupp no question makes of Aye and No,
But strikes alike Cathedral or Château
And I who send it out into the Field—
I know about it all—I know—I know!

X

And much as War has made an infidel
Of me, and robbed me of my honour, well
I often wonder what the Devil has
One half so devilish as I—In Hell!

XI

Ah, but my innovations people say
Placed war upon a sounder basis? Nay,
’Twas only striking from War’s lexicon
The terms TRUTH, HONOUR, DECENCY, FAIR PLAY.

XII

The Treaties that I set my seal upon
Are turned to dust and ashes, which anon
Like snowflakes falling in a muddy street
Lighting a little hour or two are gone.

XIII

What if my sword can fling the Sheath aside
And naked plunge into the crimson tide,
Were’t not a shame, were’t not a shame for me,
By a “mere scrap of paper” to abide?

XIV

Indeed, indeed, continually I swore
For Peace—but was I solemn when I swore?
And then—then came the Day and sword in hand
My threadbare piety apieces tore.
* * * * *
XV

From Europe’s centre, through the Belgian gate
I rode and at the Door of Paris sate.
And many a city ravished by the road,
But Paris—she is still immaculate.

XVI

Here was the Gate to which I found no key;
Here was the Wall o’er which I might not see.
Some little talk awhile of strategy
There was, and then—good afternoon, Paree!