The Crusaders

What price yer humble,

Dicko Smith,    in gaudy putties girt, With sand-blight in his optics, and much    leaner than he started,

Round the 'Oly Land cavorting in three-   quarters of a shirt, And imposin' on the natives ez one Dick    the Lion 'Earted?

We are drivin' out the infidel, we're hittin'   up the Turk, Same ez Richard slung his right across the    Saracen invader In old days of which I'm readin'.

Now   we're gettin' in our work, 'N' what price me nibs,

I ask yeh, ez a    qualified Crusader! 'Ere I am, a thirsty Templar in the fields of   Palestine, Where that hefty little fighter,

Bobby    Sable, smit the heathen,

And where Richard Coor de Lion trimmed   the Moslem good 'n' fine, 'N' he took the belt from Saladin, the    slickest Dago breathin'.

There's no plume upon me helmet, 'n' no red   cross on me chest, 'N' so fur they haven't dressed me in a    swanking load of metal;

We've no 'Oly Grail I know of, but we do   our little best With a jamtin, 'n' a billy, 'n' a battered    ole mess kettle.

Quite a lot of guyver missin' from our brand   of chivalry; We don't make a pert procession when    we're movin' up the forces;

We've no pretty, pawin' stallion, 'n' no   pennants flowin' free, 'N' no giddy, gaudy bedquilts make a    circus of the 'orses.

We 'most always slip the cattle 'n' we cut out   all the dog When it fairly comes to buttin' into battle's    hectic fever,

Goin' forward on our wishbones, with our   noses in the bog, 'N' we 'eave a pot iv blazes at the cursed    unbeliever.

Fancy-dress them old Crusaders wore,   and alwiz kep' a band. What we wear's so near to nothin' that it's    often 'ardly proper,

And we swings a tank iv iron scrap across   the 'Oly Land From a dinkie gun we nipped ashore the    other side of Jopper.

We ain't ever very natty, for the climate here   is hot; When it isn't liquid mud the dust is thicker    than the vermin.

Ten to one our bold Noureddin is some wad-   dlin' Turkish pot, 'N' the Saladin we're on to is a snortin'    red-eyed German.

But be'old the eighth Crusade, 'n' Dicko   Smith is in the van, Dicko Coor de Lion from Carlton what    could teach King Dick a trifle,

For he'd bomb his Royal Jills from out his   baked-pertater can, Or he'd pink him full of leakage with a    quaint repeatin' rif1e.

We have sunk our claws in Mizpah, and   Siloam is in view. By my 'alidom from Agra we will send the    Faithful reelin'!

Those old-timers botched the contract, but we   mean to put it through. Knights Templars from Balmain, the Port,    Monaro,

Nhill, andl Ealin'.

We 'are wipin' up Jerus'lem; we were ready   with a hose Spoutin' lead, a dandy cleaner that you bet    you can rely on;

And Moss Isaacs,

Cohn, and Cohen,

Moses,   Offelbloom 'n' those Can all pack their bettin' bags, and come   right home again to Zion.