KAISER WILHELM.

Manawatu Herald, Volume XXXIX, Issue 1737, 12 July 1917, Page 4

KAISER WILHELM.

NOT A BOUQUET O’ POSIES. The followin'’- rod-hot lines ere by Pol or Mackay, a Seol-American, and are dedicated to “tin 1 boys in. (ho trendies”: — Cursed boyer ugly Prussian face, Worsl savage o’ the human race. Soon may-some missile end your pace, Bailli sure and sudden; And soon may yer carcase (ind a place On some French midden. For years and years ye’ve been prepairin’ For yer unholy murderin’ erran’; But Kaiser Bill, ye’ll get yer fairin’ As sure as death, And glory waits the faither’s bairn That stops yer breath. Oh, Oil, if some Scotsman’s Godsped bullet Wad in yer black heart lind its billet, I’d laud wi’ joy that Scot and'pellet, In twa’r three verses, I’d like tac tan yer hide and sell it, Just like a. horse’s. Since first ye marched wi’ Hags unfurled. Wi’ yer black mustache upward curled, Millions of men tae death ye hurled In yer ma’d campaign, Ye “would be” Kaiser o’ the World, Ye’r march was vain. Ye went tae Belgian territory, Aind killed wee bairns and the hoary, And butchered women lao get glory, For ye’r ain sol’, Yer pathway through that land was gory, Ye gave (hem Hell. incarnate Jiend in human guise, Ye surely got a great surprise, When ye saw ye eouldna’ Kaiserizo The Land o’ France, Britannia’s jolt between the eyes Stop! your advance. Twa year and mair afore yestreen, Yer plans were laid and a” eorescon Tae mass brass hands on Glaesca green, Orjvelvinside, And ye’r band’s first tune was to have been “Waeht on the Clyde.” This Prussian program cam tae nil, But as sure’s yer name is Kaiser Bill, The IlielaiT pipers surely will Play in Berlin. Or ye may hear them by God’s will In St. Helene. Oh, “Holy Willie,” over the Rhine, Dutch potentate by “Right Divine,” Like Stewart Kings o’ “Auld Lang Syne,” Yer goose is cooked. Ah —Kaiser Bill, last o’ yer line, Yer doom is booked. When peace will come ’twill end your caste, End Royal rule, unjust, unchaste, Justice will sweep ye ’oot as waste, You and your breed, But ye’ll be the first one to be placed On midden held. God damn ye, Kaiser, fullest Hun. When I think o’ a’ the ill ye’ve done, Ye should be placed before a gun And biawn tae Hell. For there’s noeht else that could be done Would suit as well. You and your princeling generation, Are a black blof on civilisation, Yer just the worst abomination, Beneath the sun,' The vilest name in a’ creation, is yours, “ye Hun.”