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'.