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.