After The Lecture On Spion Kop

"Man, Blake was fine: ev'ry word that he spoke
Snapped out like the crack of a whip.
D ye mind where he looked through the cannon smoke
As the English let go their grip?
For that one hot minute on Spion Kop,
God willin', I'd roast ten years!
No wonder the lecture was called to a stop
Till the boys were dead with their cheers;
And, so," said Burke, with his glass in his hand,
"God bless the burghers of Boerland!"
"And Blake left a leg there," twas Kelly stood up.
"They ve scattered the Irish Brigade;
But few as they were they emptied their cup,
And the man who dies twice isn't made.
Twas a fresh red mark on the old war map;
They signed it, men, for us all,
And we'd rather lie stiff with them there in the gap
Than to cheer them in Mulligan s Hall.
Oh, the fights all along the Tugela were grand,
So, God bless the burghers of Boerland!"
"Ah, things have gone badly," said Burke, "since then."
"In time," said Shea with a frown,
"Two hundred and fifty thousand men
Will wear thirty thousand down."
"If I was De Wet," said Burke, "I'd set"
"If you? arrah whisht," said Shea,
"Phil Sheridan couldn t give points to De Wet
In a dash and a smash and away,
He'd keep up a fight with a lone command
God bless the burghers of Boerland!"
"And the Boers are Protestants. One would think,"
Said Burke, "'twould for something count."
"In questions of loot," said Shea with a wink,
"That wouldn't reduce the amount.
When Cromwell made Ireland an open grave
And gave us the edge of the knife,
It wasn t our souls he wanted to save,
But to ease us of land and life.
And tis Ireland yet, lads, mountain and strand,
So, God bless the burghers of Boerland!"
"The smoke of their homesteads darkens the sky,"
Said Burke, "but their guns are bright;
Their women and children are herded to die,
But they don't give up the fight.
The world has left them, more shame to the world,
To rastle their way to death,
But an Englishman's soul to the pit is hurled
When a Boer gives up his breath.
And they re fighting to-day from the Cape to the Rand;
God bless the burghers of Boerland!"
"A race doesn t hate for the sake of hate,"
"Nor," said Kelly, "when gun faces gun;
But the bitter black flower grows early and late
Where the killing of women is done;
On the graves of the children its roots strike deep,
Then the hearts of live men it will clutch,
And till Judgment their race will its foothold keep;
You can t kill the Irishor Dutch!
So, if none but us three were to stretch them a hand,
God bless the burghers of Boerland!"