HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER Or THE HOLLERIN’ HOHENZOLLERIN
By Angus Mackay
Dear Gott! der weight of “right divine”
Iss on my shoulters heavy yet;
Und worries grow for me und mine
For fear our thrones should be upset.
Democracy disturbs my dreams
Und leaves Thy Villiam veak und vorn;
Der worldt iss upsite down, it seems,
Since Chermany was made to mourn.
Ve deemed der throne of “Nick” secure
From Gottless hordes who scheme and scoff;
But foes of mineund Thine, impure,
Rebelled und bowled der Romanoff!
Und also Greece went on der skids,
For Constantine, my Constantine!
Und other kinks may lose their lids
Till all are gone safe mine und Thine!
If von by von ve lose our crown
My schemes on earth vill be upset;
Und Gott! if Ireland turns us down
Ve're in der soup alretty yet!
Der Yankees, too, are now in France,
To aid der hateful Philistine,
Und swear they'll make der Kaiser dance
Der Turkey trot across der Rhine!
Yes, I vill dance und I vill trot,
Der Shottiss und der minuet,
But, by der power of “Me und Gott”
U. Sam vill pay der piper yet!
Gott, I've been faithful to my trust
Since Thou dids't place me on der throne;
My sword wass neffer known to rust
Vile it coult yet extract a groan.
Wheneffer yet I drew dot sword
To make der helpless victim bleed,
I alvays called upon der Lort
To guide my arm und bless der deed!
I sink der ships on all der seas,
My submarines are on der chob!
Despairing cries invade der breeze
Und music's in der dying sob!
I rain der pombs from oudt der sky,
On schools and hospitals below;
Der vimmen und der chiltren die —
For thus do ve reduce der foe!
Lort help me mit my war to prove
To all der swine as they shoult know,
Thou are der ruler up above
Und I am ruler down below!
I am der Moses as of oldt,
I smite der heathen hip and thigh —
Lort send me Aaron yet to holdt
Thy fainting servant's handts on high!
On Gideon still holdt der sun —
Thou dids't for “Josh” in years agone;
Und let der melancholy moon
Still flood der vale of Ajalon!
O Chermany! dear Chermany!
Der Lort of Hosts vill see you through!
Ve are der chosen people ve,
Und not der Scotch or cunning Jew!
Vonce, Lort, Thou knowest ve vere chums,
Und everything did come my vay;
But now Thou'rt turning down der thumbs,
No matter how so loudt I bray!
Remember, Chermany's Thy friendt;
Upholdt it, Lort, for our dear sake;
Der line of Hintenburg is bent —
O help us, Gott, before it break!
I'm trusting in Thine aid divine,
Und bray und fight mit shot and shell,
But Himmel fails to hold der line
Against Canucks dot fight like hell!
I bray at morning, bray at night,
Und bray at noon ven it is hot;
But Gott is keeping oudt of sight —
He answers not, He answers not!
O! can it be, as scoffers say,
Der race iss for der von who runs?
Und dot no matter how ve bray
Der Lort is mit der biggest guns?
If so it be, then all iss lost;
Farewell, farewell, dear Chermany!
Lloyd Chorge can figure up der cost
And charge it all to Gott und me!