They that save us being losers—Rah! the tin-protected cruisers!
Hear their rattling Maxims pound, pound, pound!
When the guns have done their work, and the Tagals come our way,
(I admit they much prefer us to the guns,)
Why, we finish up what's left—ten in every dozen lay
Dead as Noah, in the swampy pools and runs;
Then the Maxims stop their rattle and we know that midst the reeds,
Half a hundred Filipinos on the ground
Are a-looking at the sky, with a glassy, sightless eye,
And the other half—or most of them—are drowned.