The Crusaders

What price yer humble, Dicko Smith,

   in gaudy putties girt,

With sand-blight in his optics, and much

   leaner than he started,

Round the 'Oly Land cavorting in three-

  quarters of a shirt,

And imposin' on the natives ez one Dick

   the Lion 'Earted?

We are drivin' out the infidel, we're hittin'

  up the Turk,

Same ez Richard slung his right across the

   Saracen invader

In old days of which I'm readin'. Now

  we're gettin' in our work,

'N' what price me nibs, I ask yeh, ez a

   qualified Crusader!

'Ere I am, a thirsty Templar in the fields of

  Palestine,

Where that hefty little fighter, Bobby

   Sable, smit the heathen,

And where Richard Coor de Lion trimmed

  the Moslem good 'n' fine,

'N' he took the belt from Saladin, the

   slickest Dago breathin'.

There's no plume upon me helmet, 'n' no red

  cross on me chest,

'N' so fur they haven't dressed me in a

   swanking load of metal;

We've no 'Oly Grail I know of, but we do

  our little best

With a jamtin, 'n' a billy, 'n' a battered

   ole mess kettle.

Quite a lot of guyver missin' from our brand

  of chivalry;

We don't make a pert procession when

   we're movin' up the forces;

We've no pretty, pawin' stallion, 'n' no

  pennants flowin' free,

'N' no giddy, gaudy bedquilts make a

   circus of the 'orses.

We 'most always slip the cattle 'n' we cut out

  all the dog

When it fairly comes to buttin' into battle's

   hectic fever,

Goin' forward on our wishbones, with our

  noses in the bog,

'N' we 'eave a pot iv blazes at the cursed

   unbeliever.

Fancy-dress them old Crusaders wore,

  and alwiz kep' a band.

What we wear's so near to nothin' that it's

   often 'ardly proper,

And we swings a tank iv iron scrap across

  the 'Oly Land

From a dinkie gun we nipped ashore the

   other side of Jopper.

We ain't ever very natty, for the climate here

  is hot;

When it isn't liquid mud the dust is thicker

   than the vermin.

Ten to one our bold Noureddin is some wad-

  dlin' Turkish pot,

'N' the Saladin we're on to is a snortin'

   red-eyed German.

But be'old the eighth Crusade, 'n' Dicko

  Smith is in the van,

Dicko Coor de Lion from Carlton what

   could teach King Dick a trifle,

For he'd bomb his Royal Jills from out his

  baked-pertater can,

Or he'd pink him full of leakage with a

   quaint repeatin' rif1e.

We have sunk our claws in Mizpah, and

  Siloam is in view.

By my 'alidom from Agra we will send the

   Faithful reelin'!

Those old-timers botched the contract, but we

  mean to put it through.

Knights Templars from Balmain, the Port,

   Monaro, Nhill, andl Ealin'.

We 'are wipin' up Jerus'lem; we were ready

  with a hose

Spoutin' lead, a dandy cleaner that you bet

   you can rely on;

And Moss Isaacs, Cohn, and Cohen, Moses,

  Offelbloom 'n' those

Can all pack their bettin' bags, and come

  right home again to Zion.