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.