Since the time when Tommy’s uniform was musketoon an’ wig, There ’as always been a bloke wot ’ad a way Of writin’ of the Glory an’ forgettin’ the fatig’, ’Oo saw ’im in ’is tunic day by day, Smart an’ gay, An’ forgot about the smallness of his pay! But you’re _our_ partic’lar author, you’re our patron an’ our friend, You’re the poet of the cuss-word an’ the swear, You’re the poet of the people, where the red-mapped lands extend, You’re the poet of the jungle an’ the lair, An’ compare, To the ever-speaking voice of everywhere! There are poets wot can please you with their primrose-vi’let lays, There are poets wot can drive a man to drink; But it takes a ’pukka’ poet, in a Patriotic Craze, To make a chortlin’ nation squirm an’ shrink, Gasp an’ blink; An’ ’eedless, thoughtless people stop an’ think! Yes, the ’and wot banged the banjo an’ made Tommy comic songs, ’Oo wrote of Empires, ’Lion’s ’Ead to Line,’ ’Oo found an ’idden poem in M’Andrew’s Injin gongs, Was the checkin’ ’and wot gave the warnin’ sign, In a line— That gave the people soda after wine. *THE MISSION THAT FAILED* Our troop was encamped by the side of a stream An’ a very smart troop were we. We ’ad Cavalry orficers—straight from town, An’ we escorted Mister Commissioner Brown, Commissioner Brown, C.B. An’ we ’eard that the Governor put ’im down, For a spare K.C.M.G.! We wos camped near by to a border town, On the borders of Creegerland— A very despotic, republican state— An’ there we ’ad got the order to wait, But why, we did not understand. So we bedded our ’orses, an’ cussed at our fate (For you can’t cuss the man in command). One mornin’ sez Mister Commissioner Brown, Sez ’e to the ’ole parade, ’I’ve bin inspired by a dream just now— I can’t say why, an’ I can’t say ’ow— But a voice in my dream it said, "O in Joannistown there’s a deuce of a row And badly they want your aid!"’ Now Joannistown is in Creegerland, Which same is a friendly state. An’ it isn’t no joke—which is puttin’ it fine— To pass without notice the border-post sign; But we did it, as I will relate.— We really intended to drop ’em a line! But we ’adn’t got time to wait. We ’ad ridden some miles into Creegerland When Commissioner Brown, C.B., ’E called an ’alt,—which a troop requires, For a man, ’e tires, as ’is ’orse perspires,— An’ ’e sez to the troop, sez ’e, ’About ten miles from ’ere are some telegraph wires, An’ a very good thought struck me.