Lines To Our New Censor

[Mr. Oscar Wilde, having discovered that England is unworthy of him, has announced his resolve to become a naturalised Frenchman.] And wilt thou, Oscar, from us flee, And must we, henceforth, wholly sever? Shall thy laborious _jeux-d'esprit_ Sadden our lives no more for ever? And all thy future wilt thou link With that brave land to which thou goest? Unhappy France! we _used_ to think She touched, at Sedan, fortune's lowest. And you're made French as easily As you might change the clothes you're wearing? Fancy!--and 'tis so hard to be A man of sense and modest bearing. May fortitude beneath this blow Fail not the gallant Gallic nation! By past experience, well we know Her genius for recuperation. And as for us--to our disgrace, Your stricture's truth must be conceded: Would any but a stupid race Have made the fuss about you _we_ did?