Page:Departmental Ditties and Ballads and Barrack-Room Ballads, Kipling, 1899.djvu/157

Rh How little Begums see the light—deduce

Thence how the True Reformer's child is born.

It's interesting, curious ... and vile.

I told the Turk he was a gentleman.

I told the Russian that his Tarter veins

Bled pure Parisian ichor; and he purred.

The Congress doesn't purr. I think it swears.

You're young—you'll swear too ere you've reached the end.

The End! God help you, if there be a God.

(There must be one to startle Gl-dst-ne's soul

In that new land where all the wires are cut,

And Cr-ss snores anthems on the asphodel.)

God help you! And I'd help you if I could,

But that's beyond me. Yes, your speech was crude.

Sound claret after olives—yours and mine;

But Medoc slips into vin ordinaire.

(I'll drink my first at Genoa to your health)

Raise it to Hock. You'll never catch my style.

And, after all, the middle-classes grip

The middle-class—for Brompton talk Earl's Court.

Perhaps you're right. I'll see you in the Times—

A quarter-column of eye-searing print,

A leader once a quarter—then a war;