In a prison cell I sadly sit
A d––d crestfallen chappy! 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
While waiting cru-ci-fixion!
No matter what "end they decide–
Quicklime? 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 as 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 SHOOT ’EM!
And if you'd earn a D.S.O., Why every British sinner Should know the proper way to go Is: " THE BOER TO DINNER!"
Let's toss a bumper down our throat, Before we pass to heaven, And toast: "The trim-set petticoat We left behind in Devon."