‘Tis a memory to be hoarded -
Oh, the follish tale and fond!
Till another stream be forded -
And we reach the Great Beyond.
In prison cell I sadly sit, A d__d crest-fallen chappie! And own to you I feel a bit- A little bit - unhappy!
It really ain't the place nor time To reel off rhyming diction - But yet we'll write a final rhyme Whilst waiting cru-ci-fixion!
No matter what "end" they decide - Quick-lime or "b'iling ile," sir? We'll do our best when crucified To finish off in style, sir!
But we bequeath a parting tip For sound advice of such men, Who come across in transport ship To polish off the Dutchmen!
If you encounter any Boers You really must not loot 'em! And if you wish to leave these shores, For pity's sake, DON'T SHOOT 'EM!!
And if you'd earn a D.S.O., Why every British sinner Should know the proper way to go Is: "ASK THE BOER TO DINNER!"
Let's toss a bumper down our throat, - Before we pass to Heaven, And toast: "The trim-set petticoat We leave behind in Devon."