But I guess we don't mean scuttle. If we do,
We shall make the bloomingest o' black mistakes;
With the 'owling Dervishes you've stood a brush,
With a baynick you can cross a shovel-spear;
But leave yer to the French, and Fuzzy's rush?
That won't be a 'ealthy game for many a year.
So 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah! May you cut and run no more,
Though the 'acking, 'owling, 'ayrick-'eaded niggers rush and roar,
We back you, 'elp you, train you, and to make the bargain fair,
We won't leave you—yet—to Fuz-Wuz—him as broke a British Square.