The Crusaders
What price yer humble, Dicko Smith,
in gaudy putties girt,
With sand-blight in his optics, and much
leaner than he started,
Round the 'Oly Land cavorting in three-
quarters of a shirt,
And imposin' on the natives ez one Dick
the Lion 'Earted?
We are drivin' out the infidel, we're hittin'
up the Turk,
Same ez Richard slung his right across the
Saracen invader
In old days of which I'm readin'. Now
we're gettin' in our work,
'N' what price me nibs, I ask yeh, ez a
qualified Crusader!
'Ere I am, a thirsty Templar in the fields of
Palestine,
Where that hefty little fighter, Bobby
Sable, smit the heathen,
And where Richard Coor de Lion trimmed
the Moslem good 'n' fine,
'N' he took the belt from Saladin, the
slickest Dago breathin'.
There's no plume upon me helmet, 'n' no red
cross on me chest,
'N' so fur they haven't dressed me in a
swanking load of metal;
We've no 'Oly Grail I know of, but we do
our little best
With a jamtin, 'n' a billy, 'n' a battered
ole mess kettle.
Quite a lot of guyver missin' from our brand
of chivalry;
We don't make a pert procession when
we're movin' up the forces;
We've no pretty, pawin' stallion, 'n' no
pennants flowin' free,
'N' no giddy, gaudy bedquilts make a
circus of the 'orses.
We 'most always slip the cattle 'n' we cut out
all the dog
When it fairly comes to buttin' into battle's
hectic fever,
Goin' forward on our wishbones, with our
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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