To The Pope

May it please your Holiness         There are possibly two,         Or it may be three,         Men         In Europe         Who could indite this Ode         Without treading on anybody's corns.         After mature reflection,         I am inclined to think that I am those three men         So that you will understand.         Well, my dear Pope, I hear on all hands         That you are engaged, at the present moment,         In the cheerful act and process         Of having a Jubilee.         I have had several myself         And I know what pleasant little functions they are,         Especially when the King         Sends a mission to congratulate one on them.         To proceed,         You must know, my dear Pope,         That, by conviction         And in my own delightful country,         I am a rabid, saw-toothed Kensitite Protestant;         All my ancestors figure gloriously         In Foxe's "Book of Martyrs,"         And, if they don't, they ought to.         Also, I never go into Smithfield         Without thinking of the far-famed fires thereof         And thanking my lucky stars         That this is Protestant England         And that the King defends the Faith.         But, when I get on to the Continent,         To do my week-end in Paris,         Or my "ten days at lovely Lucerne,"         Or my walk with Dr. Lunn         "In the footsteps of St. Paul,"         Why, then, somehow         The bottom falls clean out of my Kensitariousness         And I become a decent, mass-hearing, candle-burning Catholic.         That is curious, but true,         And may probably be accounted for         By differences of climate.         However, we can leave that;         Here, in England, my dear Pope,         We all like you,         Whether we be Catholics or Protestants or Jews or Gentiles or members of the Playgoers' Club;         And we all see you, in our minds' eye,         Seated benevolently upon your throne         Giving people blessings;         Or walking in the Vatican Garden         Clothed on with simple white.         We all think of you, my beloved Pope,         As a diaphanous and dear old gentleman         Whose intentions are the kindest in the world.         And yet, and yet, and yet -         The memory of Smithfield         So rages in our honest British blood         That, in spite of your white garments         And your placid, gentle ways,         We feel quite sure that you do carry,         Somewhere about your person,         A box of matches;         And that, if certain people had their way,         You would soon be lighting such a candle in England         That we should want a new Foxe         And a new Book of Martyrs         Of about the size of a pantechnicon.         Hence it is, my dear Pope,         That we - er - Englishmen remain Protestant         And make the King swear fearful oaths         Against popery and all its works,         Although, for aught one knows to the contrary,         He may have Mass said twice daily         Behind the curtain, as it were.         All the same, I wish you good wishes         As to this your Jubilee         And         Nihil obstat.