Butchered to Make a Dutchman's Holiday

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 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 left behind in Devon."