The Dove
Within his office, smiling.
Sat JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN,
But all the screws of Birmingham
Were working in his brain.
The heart within his bosom
Was as a millstone hard;
His eye was cold and cruel,
His face was frozen lard.
He had the map of Africa
Upon his table spread:
He took a brush, and with the same
He painted it blood-red.
He heard no moan of widows,
But only the hurrah
Of charging lines and squadrons
And ‘Rule Britannia.’
A white dove to his window
With branch of olive sped -
He took a ruler in his hand,
And struck the white dove dead.
