Blood and gore,
For he takes his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.
"When at 'ome he may content himself with whisky,
But if once he lands upon a foreign shore--
On the Nile or Irrawady--
He forgets his native toddy,
And he takes his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.
Blood and gore,
And he takes his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.
"He's a connoisseur of every foreign vintage,
From the claret of the fat and juicy Boer
To the thicker nigger brand
That he spills upon the sand,
When he draws his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.
Blood and gore,
When he draws his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore."
"Fine, isn't it!" exclaimed Sam's neighbor, the captain, who was
standing by him, as they all joined in hearty applause. "I tell you
Bludyard Stripling ought to be our poet laureate. He's the laureate of
the Empire, at any rate. Why, a song like that binds a nation together.
You haven't any poet like that, have you?"
"No-o," answered Sam, thinking in shame of Shortfellow, Slowell, and
Pittier. "I'm afraid all our poets are old women and don't understand
us soldiers."
"Stripling understands everything," said the captain. "He never makes a
mistake. He is a universal genius."
"I don't think we ever drink cocktails with a straw," ventured Sam.
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