A Glosa for Harry
Let's toss a bumper down our throat, -
Before we pass to Heaven,
And toast: "The trim-set petticoat
behind in Devon."
[H.H. "Breaker" Morant.]
Perhaps no finer horseman rode,
than Harry, black sheep, abroad…
The antipodes his forced abode,
as grant and wits afford.
Soon to love, the bushman's role,
in the outback, wild and remote.
In song and verse would
things in life, which needs control…
"To fate, it may favour or sometimes gloat,"
a bumper down our throat, -
"Fear not the traps, or law's decree,
stay ahead of bailiff, and bad debt…
Ever be vagabond, wandering free.
stolen goods pay your losing bet,
the warrants issued, will be served.
In a wild melee, seven come eleven,
may get the fate deserved…
Long sentences spent in cells reserved,
where feast, we will, on dry un-leaven…
we pass to Heaven."
"What a trap, the wedded ball and chain,
that trim set petticoat, she who governs.
No more we'll walk that sad
seems freedom burns, in marriage ovens.
We may yet escape, then give due thanks…
When men decide,
not to sink, but float,
they swim like hell to the farthest banks.
There's a Boer war and Carbineer ranks.
flee like rats, from a sinking boat…
…And toast: "The trim-set petticoat".."
But ill fate for Harry, some fondness felt,
though rogues may run, they cannot hide.
Destiny called the tune, there
on the veldt,
for those orders given…then later denied.
To the firing squad, a smile for one and all,
aside, a blindfold, doomed are given.
One final message, before the hammers fall.
"Shoot straight you bastards," was
Seems the finest memories, outside of heaven…
dwell in hearts, we leave behind in Devon…
©. Copyright: Bernard de Silva…Jul. 29, 07.