YOUNG HOTSPUR
Cushie, old woman, you'll feel a fresh hand,
And the dogs ’ll get working they won’t understand.
Ay, Roy and Rover, you’ll miss me a bit;
Well, I don’t care who misses, so long as I hit!
Last night I was hearing my mother looked sad,
And a face at the station’s not overly glad.
But when fighting and fun have got hold of a man,
Why,—the women must manage the best way they can.
What’s kisses, and comfort? The worth of a pin
When there’s wrongs to be righted, and honours to win:
When the country is up, and they’re calling from Home,
And you’ve long’d all your life for a bit of a roam!
And suppose, one fine evening, the old Cross up there
Down at me dead on some kopje should stare—
All right! I’ll have met with some reason for breath;
Life I'll have tasted before I feed Death.
Here’s the moon, Russet! Not much of a lamp,
And a dozen odd miles to pick back into camp.
Up! Good-bye, wharé and paddock and all!
It’s “Hurrah for New Zealand, and down with Oom Paul!”
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