The Kaiser's Bhoys

    O, the Kaiser's bhoys are marching, "nach Paris" they are going,
    But they've sthopped to rest a minit at the Marne and at the Meuse;
    And the Gordons and the Ministers are thryin' to entertain them,
    For they've every kind of "record" that the Teutons want to choose;
    They have battle cries that sounded for centuries in the Highlands,
    They have war cries fierce and stirring as the breath of Munster gales;
    They are shoutin' to the heavens, and they're shoutin' to the Kaiser,
    "Faugh-a-ballagh!" sons of Odin, or we'll tie you up like bales.

    O, the Kaiser's bhoys are dramin' of a naval base at Calais,
    But they wakin' ivery mornin' full of sorrow and of gloom;
    For the little Belgian sojers cut the dykes and flood their trenches,
    And they find their dugouts only jist a bathtub or a tomb.
    But they're makin' progress backward, "nach Berlin" they are going,
    With their "Landsturms" and their "Land-wehrs," keepin' sthep in dim grey line;
    And they'll know far more of Britain and her brood of lions snarlin',
    When they find themselves "su Hause" jist beyant
                "Die Wacht am Rhein."

    For John E. Redmond, M.P.