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.
First published in The Bulletin, 22 February 1902, p6