For 'e's eyes all up 'is coat,
An' a bugle in 'is throat,
An' you will not play the goat
Under Bobs.
'E's a little down on drink
Chaplain Bobs;
But it keeps us outer Clink—
Don't it, Bobs?
So we will not complain
Tho' 'e's water on the brain,
If 'e leads us straight again—
Blue-light Bobs.
If you stood 'im on 'is head,
Father Bobs,
You could spill a quart of lead
Outer Bobs.
'E's been at it thirty years,
An-amassin' souveneers
In the way o' slugs an' spears—
Ain't yer Bobs?
What 'e does not know o' war,
Gen'ral Bobs,
You can arst the shop next door—
Can't they, Bobs?
Oh, 'e's little but he's wise;
'E's terror for 'is size,
An'—'e—does—not—advertize—
Do yer, Bobs?
Now they've made a bloomin' Lord
Outer Bobs,
Which was but 'is fair reward—
