'Erb, with his accustomed push,
Was advancing when the bush
Dragged the last remaining stitches
From the bag he called his breeches,
Leaving nothing but the dregs
Of the red stripe down his legs.
'Erbert paused; though not a prude,
He had never liked the nude.

Seated in a distant clearing.
He remarked the natives cheering,
And, directed by the din,
Saw the plight his mates were in.
When he thought the time was ripe,
Clad in little but his stripe
'Erbert charged.... The tribes in wonder
Promptly bolted with the plunder.

'Erbert with averted head
Quickly gathered every shred
Of his late-lamented kit,
Saying, as he handed it
To the Major, "I infer
You have lost your breeches, Sir."

With his glasses in his hands
On his deck the Captain stands,
Watching with surprise and fear
His detachment reappear--
First the Major, garbed in dirt