Verse and Worse. Graham Harry

      The Russian Empire, as you see,

      Is governed by an Autocrat,

      A sort of human target he

      For anarchists to practise at;

      And much relieved most people are

      Not to be lodging with the Czar.

      The Russian lets his whiskers grow,

      Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, and

      Imbibes more 'vodki' than 'il faut';

      A habit which (I understand)

      Enables him with ease to tell

      His name, which nobody could spell.

      The climate here is cold, with snow,

      And you go driving in a sleigh,

      With bells and all the rest, you know,

      Just like a Henry Irving play;

      While, all around you, glare the eyes

      Of secret officers and spies!

      The Russian prisons have no drains,

      No windows or such things as that;

      You have no playthings there but chains,

      And no companion but a rat;

      When once behind the dungeon door,

      Your friends don't see you any more.

      I further could enlarge, 'tis true,

      But fear my trembling pen confines;

      I have no wish to travel to

      Siberia and work the mines.

      (In Russia you must write with care,

      Or the police will take you there.)

      If you hold morbid views about

      A monarch's premature decease,

      You only need a – Hi! Look out!

      Here comes an agent of police!

      (In future my address will be

      'Siberia, Cell 63.')

      'Tis here the Spanish onion grows,

      And they eat garlic all the day,

      So, if you have a tender nose,

      'Tis best to go the other way,

      Or else you may discern, at length,

      The fact that 'Onion is strength.'

      The chestnuts flourish in this land,

      Quite good to eat, as you will find,

      For they are not, you understand,

      The ancient after-dinner kind

      That Yankees are accustomed to

      From Mr. Chauncey M. Depew.

      The Spanish lady, by the bye,

      Is an alluring person who

      Has got a bright and flashing eye,

      And knows just how to use it too;

      It's quite a treat to see her meet

      The proud hidalgo on the street.

      He wears a sort of soft felt hat,

      A dagger, and a cloak, you know,

      Just like the wicked villains that

      We met in plays of long ago,

      Who sneaked about with aspect glum,

      Remarking, 'Ha! A time will come!'

      His blood, of blue cerulean hue,

      Runs in his veins like liquid fire,

      And he can be most rude if you

      Should rob him of his heart's desire;

      'Caramba!' he exclaims, and whack!

      His dagger perforates your back!

      If you should care to patronise

      A bull-fight, as you will no doubt,

      You'll see a horse with blinded eyes

      Be very badly mauled about;

      By such a scene a weak inside

      Is sometimes rather sorely tried.

      And, if the bull is full of fun,

      The horse is generally gored,

      So then they fetch another one,

      Or else the first one is encored;

      The humour of the sport, of course,

      Is not so patent to the horse.

      Be kind to ev'ry bull you meet,

      Remember how the creature feels;

      Don't wink at ladies in the street;

      And don't make speeches after meals;

      And lastly, I need not explain,

      If you're a horse, don't go to Spain.

      This atmosphere is pure ozone!

      To climb the hills you promptly start;

      Unless you happen to be prone

      To palpitations of the heart;

      In which case swarming up the Alps

      Brings on a bad attack of palps.

      The nicest method is to stay

      Quite comfortably down below,

      And, from the steps of your chalet,

      Watch other people upwards go.

      Then you can buy an alpenstock,

      And scratch your name upon a rock.

      Don't do fatiguing things which you

      Can pay another man to do.

      Let friends assume (they may be wrong),

      That you each year ascend Mong Blong.

      Some things you can pretend you've done,

      And climbing up the Alps is one.

      The Sultan of the Purple East

      Is quite a cynic, in his way,

      And really doesn't mind the least

      His nickname of 'Abdul the – ' (Nay!

      I might perhaps come in for blame

      If I divulged this monarch's name.)

      The Turk is such a kindly man,

      But his ideas of sport are crude;

      He to the poor Armenian

      Is not intentionally rude,

      But still it is his heartless habit

      To treat him as we treat the rabbit.

      If he wants bracing up a bit,

      His pleasing little custom is

      To take a hatchet and commit

      A