Oh, say you Southern Tommies, you are wanted over there,
   Where ole England 'as a trouble to see through;
Ther's fightin' to be done fer her,
So go an' fire a gun fer her,
   An' show her wot her Southern sons can do.

You ain't bin trained fer soldiers, but you're willin' an' you're game
   So bear a hand an' show 'er thet you are.
Just git the doc. to sound you,
Then bind yer belt around you.
   An' swing a bloomin' sabre fer yer mar.

So it's -- left -- right, ther's danger in the fight,
   Ther's heaps about a war to be afraid of;
But we've no cause to doubt you,
So 'ave some style about you,
   An' let your mother see the stuff you're made of.

You're bound to feel a sinkin' when the balls is gittin' thick,
   An' the shells is whistlin' toons about yer 'ead.
But keep yer lip a stiff 'un,
An' do yer bit of biffin';
   At worst you'll only stop a plug o' lead.

Ther's some is pretty sure to throw a seven (an' we'll weep);
   But a hearty welcome's waitin' fer the rest;
An' them that isn't burnin'
We 'ope to see returnin'
   With 'alf a dozen medals on the'r chest.

So it's -- left -- right, ther's danger in the fight,
   But you wouldn't see yer mother made a jade of.
She's getting knocked about a bit,
So shove yer bosun out a bit,
   An' let 'er see the sort o' stuff yer made of.

"C.J.D."
The Critic, 13 January 1899