And Hogan, that broth of a lad,
Home Ruler from Bally-na-fad,
Writes--"I'm now in the trench
With the English and French,
And we're licking the Germans, be dad!"
The Cockney Canuck from Toronto,
Whom Maple leaves hardly stick on to,
Made haste to enlist,
To fight the mailed fist,
When Canadian born didn't want to.
From where the wide-winged albatross
Floats white 'neath the Southern Cross,
There came the swift cruisers,
And Germans are losers;
Australians want no Kaiser boss.
From sheep run, pine forest and fern,
The stalwart New Zealanders turn
To the land of their sires,
For with ancestral fires
Their bosoms in ardor still burn.
The tall, turbanned, heathen Hindoo
Is proud to be in the game too,
For the joy of his life,
Is to help in the strife
Of the sahibs, and see the war through.
The Frenchman who made wooden shoes,
While airing his Socialist views,
Deserted his bench
For the horrible trench,
As soon as he heard the war news.
The wild, woolly, grinning, Turco,
From where the fierce desert winds blow,
Will give up his life
In the thick of the strife,
And go where the good niggers go.
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