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.”
Butchered version:
In prison cell I sadly sit,
A d_d crest-fallen 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
Whilst waiting cru-ci-fixion!
No matter what "end" they decide -
Quick-lime 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 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."
Notes
At its end the manuscript is described -
The Last Rhyme and Testament of Tony Lumpkin -
First published in The Bulletin, 19 April 1902.
Sometimes published under the alternate title -- Butchered To Make A Dutchman's Holiday
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Comments
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This is Harry's last poem - written just before his death by firing squad on 27 February 1902. though English born Harry Morant writes like an australian with both humour and sharp wit.
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History is good but in a Poetic form its better'
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D.S.O.
Distinguished Service Order -
sucks to be him!
any idea what "earn a D.S.O" means? This is kinda a boorish soldier's poem, it seems like. Interesting glimpse of history!
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