Sez he: ‘Fwhat kubber’ from the front, and will the Paythans stand?”
“O Terence, dear, in all Clonmel such things were never seen,
They’ve sent a rigimint to war widout a fiel’ canteen!
“’Tis not a Highland rigimint, for they wud niver care,
Their Corp’rils carry hymn-books an’ they open fire wid prayer—
’Tis not an English rigimint that burns a blue light flame,
’Tis the Eighteenth Royal Irish, man! as thirsty as they’re game!
“An’ Terence bit upon his poipe, an’ shpat behin’ the door—
‘’Tis Bobs,’ sez he, ‘that knows the thrick av making bloody war.
Ye say they go widout their dhrink?” “and that’s the trut,”’ sez I!