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The glosa is a Spanish form of poem that works as well in the English language as in Spanish.   Glosas open with a quatrain from another poet, followed by four ten-line stanzas terminating with the lines of the initial passage in consecutive order.  The sixth and ninth lines should rhyme with the borrowed tenth.

Glosas were used in the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries by poets of the Spanish court.

A Glosa for Harry
Let's toss a bumper down our throat, -
Before we pass to Heaven,
And toast: "The trim-set petticoat
We leave behind in Devon."
                          [H.H. "Breaker" Morant.]
Perhaps no finer horseman rode,
than Harry, black sheep, abroad…
The antipodes his forced abode,
he lived as grant and wits afford.
Soon to love, the bushman's role,
in the outback, wild and remote.
In song and verse would he extol,
things in life, which needs control…
"To fate, it may favour or sometimes gloat,"
…Let's toss 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.
If stolen goods pay your losing bet,
the warrants issued, will be served.
In a wild melee, seven come eleven,
we rogues may get the fate deserved…
Long sentences spent in cells reserved,
where feast, we will, on dry un-leaven…
before…Before 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 way again,
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.
Best we 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,
waved aside, a blindfold, doomed are given.
One final message, before the hammers fall.
"Shoot straight you bastards," was the call,
Seems the finest memories, outside of heaven…
dwell in hearts, we leave behind in Devon…
. Copyright: Bernard de Silva…Jul. 29, 07.