“What’s the odds?” urged the matrimonial champion, “a black wife’s a sight better than none at all;” and straightway he began to hum a military ditty, of which fate only permitted him to complete the first two stanzas:—
“They’re sounding the charge for a brush, my boys!
And we’ll carry their camp with a rush, my boys!
When we’ve driven them out, I make no doubt
We’ll find they’ve got plenty of lush, my boys!
For the beggars delight
To sit soaking all night,
Black although they be.
And when we get liquor so cheap, my boys!