We've got our foreign-service boots—I wish that I was dead;
I wish I'd got the Colonel's 'orse an' 'im my feet instead;
I wish I was a nacrobat, I'd walk upon my 'ead,
For I got my foreign-service boots this morning!
We're 'oppin' and we're 'obblin' to a cock-eyed ragtime tune,
Not a soul what isn't limpin' in the bloomin' 'ole balloon.
But buck you up, my com-e-rades, we're off to Flanders soon,
For we got our foreign-service boots this morning!
"The full tale of the German losses is being sedulously concealed. Their battered ships are licking their wounds under the Kaiser's moustache, which has been badly singed."—The Star.