HARD TIMES
[According to a daily paper, the war has had the effect of making “agar-agar” expensive in Great Britain. Up to the time of going to press the bard has been unable to find out what this article is. A similar uncertainty attaching to the pronunciation of the word, he has decided to preserve an open mind on that subject, and to rhyme it accordingly.]
I am not one whose heartstrings thrill,
Whose pulses move in wild gyration
When angry powers set out to kill
The warriors of some other nation:
For all the struggles of the Jap
Against the burly Russian bragger,
I really should not care a rap,
Could I but get my agar-agar.
But since this dreadful war began,
I’ve shunned the tradesmen who supply it.
Only the very wealthy man
Is able nowadays to buy it.
Whene’er I take my walks abroad,
My bearing lacks its normal swagger;
Men sneer, as if to say, “You fraud!
You haven’t any agar-agar!”
The manufacturer tears his hair,
Loudly his cruel fate bewailing:
For who more thoroughly aware
How swiftly the supply is failing?
Ah! Battles, both on land and sea,
Among the things that vex and plague are:
What is the good of war to me?
I cannot get my agar-agar.
Enough! Alexeieff, Togo, list.
Blow out War’s newly-kindled ember.
It’s wrong and foolish thus to twist
The British Lion’s caudal member.
Yes, let the war-drum cease to roll:
Unless you’re anxious to enrage her
Beyond the bounds of self-control,
Give Britain back her agar-agar.