Now listen to me and I’ll tell you my views concerning the African war,
And the man who upholds any different views, the same is a ritten Pro-Boer!
(Though I’m getting a little bit doubtful myself, as it drags on week after week:
But it’s better not ask any questions at all — let us silence all doubts with a shriek!)
And first let us shriek the unstinted abuse that the Tory Press prefer —
De Wet is a madman, and Steyn is a liar, and Kruger a pitiful cur!
(Though I think if Oom Paul — as old as he is — were to walk down the Strand with his gun,
A lot of these heroes would hide in the sewers or take to their heels and run!
For Paul he has fought like a man in his day, but now that he’s feeble and weak
And tired, and lonely, and old and grey, of course it’s quite safe to shriek!)
And next let us join in the bloodthirsty shriek, Hooray for Lord Kitchener’s “bag”!
For the fireman’s torch and the hangman’s cord — they are hung on the English Flag!
In the front of our brave old army! Whoop! the farmhouse blazes bright.
And the women weep and their children die — how dare they presume to fight!
For none of them dress in a uniform, the same as by rights they ought.
They’re fighting in rags and in naked feet, like Wallace’s Scotchmen fought!
(And they clothe themselves from our captured troops — and they’re catching them every week;
And they don’t hand them — and the shame is ours, but we cover the shame with a shriek!)
And, lastly, we’ll shriek the political shriek as we sit in the dark and doubt;
Where the Birmingham Judas led us in, and there’s no one to lead us out.
And Rosebery — whom we depended upon! Would only the Oracle speak!
“You go to the Grocers,” says he, “for your laws!” By Heavens! it’s time to shriek!