Sir John of the Isles, ‘ E stood on‘ is lands, An’ looked round‘ is large estates: The lands of waste, an’ the lands of corn;
The rose-clad lands, an’ the lands of thorn; An’‘ is many gun guarded gates. Sir John of the Isles, ‘ E sez to T. A.,
‘ E sez to T. A., sez‘ e, ‘ Oh, you an’ your chum, the sailor-man, Must scour the country as far as you can For you are gamekeepers to me.’
Sir John of the Isles, ‘ E sez to the swells — The Downing Street frock-coated crew — ‘ You are stewards of mine, on Colonial land,
An’ my tenants, with seventeen guns an’ a band, Shall pay their respects unto you!’ Sez John of the Isles To one of the swells,
‘ Near the lands where you're goin’ to Be Is the dusty estate of a crotchety cuss, ‘ Oo from time to time causes a great deal of fuss, For‘ e thinks‘ e's better nor me.’
Sez John of the Isles, ‘ The tenants‘ e rules Are a very peculiar lot. ‘ Is bailifs are‘ Ollanders, chock full of guile,
An’ they run the estate in a Guy-foxy style. Which is Dynamite, Treason and Plot!’ Sez John of the Isles, ‘ Do n't mind‘ is remarks,
For the land which is‘ is — it was mine; But‘ e took it to Law in a court rather grim, An’ a kopje -‘ id jury decided for‘ im! An’ awarded the land as a fine.’
Sir John of the Isles, ‘ E sez to the swell, ‘ You're a gentleman, breedin’ an birth, An’ in case of a row, without losin’ your‘ ead,
You may take my gamekeepers, an’ mark‘ is land red! On the survey-map of the Earth!’
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