Last night among his fellow roughs,
He plotted, schemed, and swore;
An anxious statesman of the Bluffs,
Who never looked before.
To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown,
He stands in Charles’s place,
Ambassador from Britain’s crown,
And type of all her race.
Rich, reckless, posh, well-born, well-taught,
Bewildered and alone,
A heart with leftish instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord or axe or flame,
He only knows that straight through him
Shall England come to shame.
Vain tiny fleets of iron framed,
Vain those enfeebled guns,
Unless proud England keep untamed
The weak hearts of her sons;
So let his name through Europe ring, —
A man of high estate,
Who bowed, as low as Belgium’s king,
Because his need was great.
(With apologies to Sir Francis Hastings Doyle)
