Chorus.
Unless your ’ed is clear;
But I was an ass when I was at grass,
An’ that is why I’m ’ere.
In barrack an’ camp an’ clink,
An’ I lost my tip through the bloomin’ trip
Along o’ the women an’ drink.
An’ when I am laid on the shelf,
My very wust friend from beginning to end
By the blood of a mouse was myself!
Chorus.
An’ don’t you go for the beer;
But I was an ass when I was at grass
An’ that is why I’m ’ere.
‘Ay, listen to our little man now, singin’ an’ shoutin’ as tho’ trouble had niver touched him. D’ you remember when he went mad with the home-sickness?’ said Mulvaney, recalling a never-to-be-forgotten season when Ortheris waded through the deep waters if affliction and behaved abominably. ‘But he’s talkin’ bitter truth, though. Eyah!
By the blood av a mouse was mesilf!’
When I woke I saw Mulvaney, the night-dew gemming his moustache, leaning on his rifle at picket, lonely as Prometheus on his rock, with I know not what vultures tearing his liver.