Oh pray, good Cousin Jonathan, assist me in my plight;
And ease my aching brain of this perpetual affright
That keeps me quaking all the day and shivering all night—
An incubus I can’t shake off, a shade I cannot fight.
I am very, very sorry for the Alabama’s pranks,
I regret that I contributed to arm Secession’s ranks,
But if you’ll only aid me now to crush these Irish cranks,
Upon my knees I’ll pledge eternal gratitude and thanks.
As empress of the ocean, and as mistress of the waves,
Britannia has a perfect right to string up Afghan braves;
To blow to bits, with dynamite, the Zulus in their caves,
And to burn the huts of savages who will not be her slaves.
But when the men she drove from home with steel and buckshot dare
Return with nasty bombs to beard the lion in his lair,
And send his best establishments cavorting through the air—
Good Heavens! you must admit it’s quite a different affair.
Poor Gladstone dare not crack an egg for fear it might explode,
A hundred picked detectives guard her Majesty’s abode.
Sir William Harcourt feels unsafe by river, rail, or road,
And letter-carriers tremble ’neath the lightest postal load.
There is terror in the country and anxiety in town,
Insurance rates are rising, while stocks are going down,
And since his kilts and plaids were doffed, forever, by John Brown,
Uneasy lies the royal head that wears the British crown.
Then, pray, good Cousin Jonathan, vouchsafe to us some ease,
I beg, implore, and crave of you, upon my bended knees.
And in return I’ll take of you whatever you may please,
Pay homage to your bacon, and monopolize your cheese.
But, oh, my brave blood relative, in Heaven’s name don’t delay,
Do not hesitate a moment, do not hold your hand a day,
Our statesmen in another month will all be bald or gray,
Unless vile nitro-glycerine has blown the lot away.