’For fear of my dream bein’ misunderstood An’ the evil constructions of liars!— For fear of alarmin’ the dear farmers’ wives An’ disturbin’ the quiet an’ peace of their lives, I think we will sever them wires! An’ I’ll give somethin’ ’andsome to ’im ’oo contrives To cut off the current—with pliers!’ An’ Michael M’Carty, Lance-Corp’ral was ’e, Right guide to a section of ’A,’ Started orf on the job, an’ we whispered a cheer, An’ we each gave the beggar our flasks—full of beer— To ’elp for to lighten ’is way! We gave ’im cheap drinks—though it was very dear When it came round to settling day! M’Carty ’e rode, an’ M’Carty ’e swilled, An’ M’Carty got big in the ’ead, Till ’e couldn’t tell telegraph poles from trees, An’ ’e wandered around, sorter go-as-you-please Till ’is wonderin’ wanderin’s led To the wires—of a fence! an’ reclinin’ at ease ’E cut up these wasters instead! It’s all over now: an’ Brown ’e got jugged, And the Burghers of Creegerland knowed. They licked us to fits in a sweet little fight, An’ the King of Jerusalem wired ’is delight! An’ the Laureate wrote us an Ode! An’ Europe got ready for action that night ’Cos M’Carty got drunk on the road! M’Carty’s a thief, M’Carty’s a beast, An’ M’Carty is likewise a liar! ’E went an’ got drunk, which ’e shouldn’t ’ave done; ’E went an’ got drunk, an’ ’e spoilt the ’ole fun: An’ the moral to them wot conspire Is, _Don’t send a beer-swilling son of a gun_ _When you’re cuttin a telegraph wire!_ *THE PRAYER* O God of Battles! Lord of Might! A sentry, in the silent night, I, ’oo ’ave never prayed, Kneel on the dew-damp sands, to say, O see me through the comin’ day— But, please remember, though I pray, That I am not afraid! O God of Battles! Lord of Might! ’Ere in the dusky, starry light, My inner self I’ve weighed; An’ I ’ave seen my guilt an’ sin; I’m black as black can be, within, But though I would forgiveness win, It ain’t ’cos I’m afraid! O God of Battles! Lord of Might! Keep me, to-morrow, in Your sight!— Far ’ave I erred an’ strayed. I’ve flaunted You, with gibe an’ sneer, At ’ome, with chums to laugh and cheer, But now, I am alone—out ’ere! But still I ain’t afraid! O God of Battles! Lord of Might! The en’my’s camp-fires twinkle bright. To-morrow, Lord, Your aid; The canteen was my Sunday-school: The drill-book was my Golden Rule; Wot are they now? O ’elpless fool! But still, I’m not afraid!