The enemy sends shots at him, and then in terror hides,
As he clears whole batteries at once with the steed that he bestrides,
And from a hissing shell a light for his cigarette provides.
Chorus.—Does this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!
He knows not fear—’tis grand to see how he his nerves controls,
As midst the grape and canister, he calmly caracoles,
Whilst bullets in his pocket-book make inconvenient holes;
And a well-pitched ball from out his hands the pencil often bowls.
Chorus.—Of the Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!
When incidents are dull or few, he’ll reckless lies invent,