When others praise the pious,
My own response is faint;
I feel no morbid bias
In favour of the saint.
My paeans, rather, let me raise
To laud the‘ Waster’ and his ways!
I love to watch my hero,
As through the streets he struts,
With loud‘ Pip! Pip!’ or‘ Cheer Oh!’
Greeting his fellow-Nuts,
And haunting ev'ry public bar
To cadge a cocktail or cigar!
Each Saturday, at Brighton,
How well he plays the role
Of Admirable Crichton,
At Grand or Metropole!
The British Lion's whelp, indeed,
True scion of the Bulldog Breed!
The‘ unco guid’ may censure,
The prudes their eyebrows raise;
His passion for adventure
Recalls those spacious days
When Britain's flag, from sea to sea,
Was borne by‘ Wasters’ such as he!
And soon‘ twill be his mission,
When fall'n on evil times,
To bear the old tradition
To far Colonial climes;
The seeds of Empire there he'll sow.
Meanwhile, I wish to Heav'n he'd go!