* MY PAL, THE BOER *

By Edgar Wallace

We met without appointment on an‘ ill,

I comed upon the beggar without warnin’;

Layin’ down be'ind a boulder,

With‘ is rifle to‘ is shoulder,

He sent along wot's Dutch for a‘ Good-mornin’.'

‘ E missed me with a fair amount of skill,

An’‘ fore‘ e'd time to mount, an’ get from danger,

I was takin’ of my rest,

By a sittin’ on‘ is chest,

An’ a sayin’ to the welcome little stranger:—

‘ My pal, the Boer!

You're a prisoner of war’

(‘ E tried to break my jaw, but that's a trifle );

‘ You can n't escape me, can yer?

In the name of Rule Britannia,

I commandeer your‘ orse an’ Mauser rifle!’

You would n't call‘ is manners over bright,

An’ you would n't term‘ is disposition sunny,

An’‘ e‘ ad a silly notion

That the cause of the commotion

Was Chamberlain a-fightin’ for‘ is money;

An’‘ e fancied that the British flag was white —

‘ Twas a silly fancy — still we must excuse it,

When the Lancers came along

‘ E felt a trifle bong!

‘ E soon found out the proper way to use it!