That is the crest for the sweet little man.
Oh, but the Apron-string Guards are the fellows!
Drilling each day since our trouble began,—
“Handle your walking-sticks!” “Shoulder umbrellas!”
That is the style for the sweet little man.
Have we a nation to save? In the first place
Saving ourselves is the sensible plan.
Surely, the spot where there’s shooting’s the worst place
Where I can stand, says the sweet little man.
Catch me confiding my person with strangers,