Pray silence! That cat on the fender,
Pray silence! that armchair that creaks,
Pray silence! each creature and gender,
Pray silence!... The Battle-Axe speaks.

"'Tis centuries now" the Axe started
"Since the workshop I left, new and gay
But my usefulness now has departed
And my glories have faded away.

But I once was a power in the land, sirs
And feared by all foes was my name
And I flashed in my bold master's hand, sirs
Like a terrible weapon of flame.

He kept me all polished and bright, sirs
Until like the sun's rays I shone
And ne'er was I vanquished in fight, sirs
Until... but I¹ll tell you anon.

From father to son I descended
In genealogical line
And ne'er did I need to be mended
'Twas long e'er my power did decline.

But at last out of fashion I went, sirs
And they pensioned me off on the wall
With scarcely a chip or a dent, sirs
In the fam'ly's baronial hall.

'Twas thought that I'd finished my battles
Such thoughts were erroneous quite
For e'er my mem'ry there rattles
The din of that last awful fight.

My master one evening, I mind, sirs
Had looked on the wine when 'twas red
With some medical students he'd dined, sirs
And at 3.30 got into bed.

In the Buffet at Charing Cross Station
My master had sat about one
And was having a strong altercation
About the Refreshment Room bun.

Some fellows surrounded that bun, sirs
And conjectured with awe at its age
Saying, 'Nothing could sever that bun, sirs
If it dies it will be of old age.'

Quoth my master, 'You¹re all talking rot, sirs
Speak only on subjects you know
I'll wager five pounds on the spot, sirs
That I'll sever that bun at a blow.'

Some sportsman accepted his wager
And fixed up the night and the hour
Then he came and told me, the 'Old Stager'
And grinned as he thought of my power.

I seemed to smell blood once again, sirs
Once more I would romp o'er the slain
To get at that bun I was fain, sirs
To smash it again and again.

At last came the eve stipulated
Spectators stood round in a ring
The betting was quite animated
Which to me seemed a marvellous thing.

For what chance did a bun stand with me, sirs
Who the finest chain-armour had split?
I determined that bun shouldn't flee, sirs
If only I got a fair hit.

'Stand clear!' called the umpire, 'Stand by, sirs
Three strokes with the axe are allowed.'
My master then raised me on high, sirs
And sneeringly smiled on the crowd.

Then 'Crash'... down I came all my might, sirs
With every knack that I knew
Twelve glasses fell down on the right, sirs
Into pieces the white counter flew.

Two dozen bottles of sherry
Fell smash on five more of port wine
But the face of the bun remained merry
Which is more than I dared say of mine.

My master, quite dazed at the sight, sirs
With a crash gave his other two blows
Nine cab-horses promptly took fright, sirs
And some glass cut the referee's nose.

But still that old bun didn¹t sever
The shrivelled old currents shewed plain
My edge had now vanished for ever
So they put me along with the slain

That¹s the story of my sad disgrace, sirs
'Tis the history true of my fall
That's the cause of my poor battered face, sirs
Which I always keep turned to the wall.

Still, often the story is told, sirs
Of the great bun and battle-axe fight
And the bun even now is not sold, sirs
So the next thing to try's dynamite."