When like an evil dream this thing shall fade
    And your unspeakable atrocious crime
    Shall find oblivion in the floods of time,
One name shall still find memory has repaid
In more than full the debt upon it laid
    —The debt of Europe’s loathing. Prison lime
    Eats up the murderer’s body, prose and rhyme
Shall keep embalmed the butcheries you made.

For you rained bullets on defenceless folk
    And swore those bullets had been rained on
            you,
        So gave to flames and loot a helpless town,
All customary laws of war you broke,
        Outraged our woman, shot civilians down,
    And only left us bitter ash to rue.

(The European War 1914-1915 Poems, p. 45)

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When in that  hour of grief and queenlessness
    You, on your charger white as driven snow,
    Shared in a mourning nation’s grief and woe
There was no voice but did the Kaiser bless;
To-day in Armageddon’s sore distress
    We know you better, for at last you show
    The tyrant undisguised, we count you foe
Both to ourselves and to God’s righteousness.

Your hand it was that careless of all ill
    Unsheathed the sword to drench a world in
            blood,
        Your heart it was that in its terrible lust
        Would trample treaties to dishonoured dust
And hack your way to Empire; but God still
    Reigns, and God’s words are Peace and
            Brotherhood.

(The European War 1914-1915 Poems, p. 22)

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Dear little maiden, Queen of the May,
May Keswick flourish beneath your sway,
And all your subjects keep your rule,
Proclaimed in village street and school;
And prove that they are happier far
Who kind to all things living are.
The poor old poet from his bed
Can see the garland round your head,
And sends this verse to deck the crown
You’ll wear to-day in Keswick town.
Good luck and happy sun attend
Your royal progress to the end,
And this bright day of joy and flowers
Be with you in life’s dullest hours.

(Lancashire Evening Post, 7 May 1920, p. 3)

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Play up the game! not yours a football goal,
    Not with a leathern ball for pay you fight,
    Your goal is Freedom: Champion of the right
You play to keep the British Empire whole;
Wherefore with body under full control,
    Nerves strong as iron, sinews braced and tight,
    You join the game—with all the world in sight,
And losing life at least you win your soul.

Player of football! clear above the shame
    Of thundering plaudits from a circling wall
        Thunder of guns and cries of wounded come;
Your country bids you play a nobler game,
    Forth to the front! tho’ Death the “time” may call,
        Bright angel hosts shall cheer the victor home.

(The European War 1914-1915 Poems, p. 132)

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