Butchered to Make a Dutchman's Holiday

In a prison cell I sadly sitA d––d crestfallen chappy!And own to you I feel a bit–A little bit–unhappy!

It really ain’t the place nor timeTo reel off rhyming diction–But yet we’ll write a final rhymeWhile waiting cru-ci-fixion!

No matter what "end they decide–Quicklime? or "b’iling ile?" sir!We’ll do our best when crucifiedTo finish off in style, sir!

But we bequeath a parting tipFor sound advice as such menWho come across in transport shipTo polish off the Dutchmen!

If you encounter any BoersYou really must not loot ’em,And if you wish to leave these shoresFor pity’s sake DON’T SHOOT ’EM!

And if you'd earn a D.S.O.,Why every British sinnerShould know the proper way to goIs: "ASK THE BOER TO DINNER!"

Let's toss a bumper down our throat,Before we pass to heaven,And toast: "The trim-set petticoatWe left behind in Devon."