Classic Poem

Dear George, in serio-cynic way
We turn our thoughts to you to-day;
Not George the singularly pure
Tongued laddie
Who could not lie, but George the man
Who could. . . . Sometimes we wonder, can
This be the country of which you're
The daddy?

The same, George. No, not quite the same.
We've gathered wealth, and strength, and fame,
Improved upon the parent stock,
Grown wiser.
(One moment, George. Prince Henry's here.
Excuse us while we add our cheer:
“Hoch!”—or, as most of us say, “Hock!—
Der Kaiser!”)

We're very German, George, to-day,
And more disposed to drink and play,
Than list to patriotic screed
Or sermon.
The Prince is with us. No offense.
Your name, of course, takes precedence.
In other words, dear George, you lead
The German.

You've led the German, George, before,
You led him, on the Jersey shore,
A merry dance in 'seventy-six—
December.
You rather jarred the British crown
That Christmas night in Trenton Town.
The German crowd lost all the tricks—
Remember?

Of course you do, and wonder how
It happens that our voices now
In praise of Deutschland's royal tar
We're lifting;
And how you hear on every hand
The language of Das Vaterland.
No doubt you wonder, “Whither are
We drifting?”

It's all right, George. You see, we got
The job to build the Kaiser's yacht.
As for the rest, pray how could we
Oppose it?
You've had a birthday every year;
And you'll have others, never fear.
Here's a fresh foaming stein to thee!
George, “Prosit!”