When they charge a "bob" for hair-cut and a tanner for a shave,
It makes you say things that you didn't ought,
And the 'umble loaf of "rootey" costs a tanner, or a bob,
Is this the kind of sympathy they're taught?
There's a luxury called butter that Tommy likes to buy,
And he'll have it if he's got the oof, you bet,
But three bob a bloomin' pound makes a hole in Atkins' pay
'Cos he ain't paid C'lonial wages (not just yet).
Clerk's son, Grocer's son, son of a Haberdasher,
All the Gents in Khaki chucking their pelf away,
Each of 'em's done his country's work,
It's hard to be done in turn,
If you want to buy grub in Bloemfontein you've to pay! pay! pay!
When you've tightened up your waistbelt just a pair of holes or so,
When you lay yourself out flat and go to sleep,
Then you dream of home and mother and some glorious feasts to go,
And you wake up, pray, and find you've done a weep;
For you've dreamt that bread and butter's gone up 3d. more in price,
(These loyal (?) folks charge really what they choose, sir),
Then you say, "Well, roll on, England," where there ain't no bloomin' lice,
And where there's many a cheap and comfy booser.
Merchant's son, Cook's son, sons of the plebs galore,
Rushing, in ragged Khaki, anxious to spend their brass,
Each of 'em's done his country's work, but the extra bob a day
Don't go far in Bloemfontein, where you've always to pay! pay! pay!
"Blobswitch."
SONS OF BRITAIN.
BY W. BLELOCH.
When the bugle call to battle sounds
Afar in the land of our birth,
In the cause of race and Queen to fight,
We rise from the ends of the earth.
Wherever the battle may be
We rally by land and by sea
To join in the fight of the free,
And our foemen have Britons to face.
Chorus:
Then Britain's sons again
Fill up the ranks with men,
Who'll fight! who'll die!
Whose battle-cry:
"True Britons we remain."