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Edward Dyson - The Crusaders
Work rating: Low

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`. 

There`s no plume upon me helmet, `n` no red 
   cross on me chest, 
 `N` so fur they haven`t dressed me in a 
    swanking load of metal; 
We`ve no `Oly Grail I know of, but we do 
   our little best 
 With a jamtin, `n` a billy, `n` a battered 
    ole mess kettle. 

Quite a lot of guyver missin` from our brand 
   of chivalry; 
 We don`t make a pert procession when 
    we`re movin` up the forces; 
We`ve no pretty, pawin` stallion, `n` no 
   pennants flowin` free, 
 `N` no giddy, gaudy bedquilts make a 
    circus of the `orses. 

We `most always slip the cattle `n` we cut out 
   all the dog 
 When it fairly comes to buttin` into battle`s 
    hectic fever, 
Goin` forward on our wishbones, with our 
   noses in the bog, 
 `N` we `eave a pot iv blazes at the cursed 
    unbeliever. 

Fancy-dress them old Crusaders wore, 
   and alwiz kep` a band. 
 What we wear`s so near to nothin` that it`s 
    often `ardly proper, 
And we swings a tank iv iron scrap across 
   the `Oly Land 
 From a dinkie gun we nipped ashore the 
    other side of Jopper. 

We ain`t ever very natty, for the climate here 
   is hot; 
 When it isn`t liquid mud the dust is thicker 
    than the vermin. 
Ten to one our bold Noureddin is some wad- 
   dlin` Turkish pot, 
 `N` the Saladin we`re on to is a snortin` 
    red-eyed German. 

But be`old the eighth Crusade, `n` Dicko 
   Smith is in the van, 
 Dicko Coor de Lion from Carlton what 
    could teach King Dick a trifle, 
For he`d bomb his Royal Jills from out his 
   baked-pertater can, 
 Or he`d pink him full of leakage with a 
    quaint repeatin` rif1e. 

We have sunk our claws in Mizpah, and 
   Siloam is in view. 
 By my `alidom from Agra we will send the 
    Faithful reelin`! 
Those old-timers botched the contract, but we 
   mean to put it through. 
 Knights Templars from Balmain, the Port, 
    Monaro, Nhill, andl Ealin`. 

We `are wipin` up Jerus`lem; we were ready 
   with a hose 
 Spoutin` lead, a dandy cleaner that you bet 
    you can rely on; 
And Moss Isaacs, Cohn, and Cohen, Moses, 
   Offelbloom `n` those 
 Can all pack their bettin` bags, and come 
   right home again to Zion.
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