Butchered to make a Dutchman's Holiday
In prison cell I sadly sit,
A dammed crestfallen 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
While waiting crucifixion.
No matter what end they decide
Quick-lime? or boiling oil? 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.”
Harry Breaker Morant
1865-1902