The British Gyp. By A. H. Laidlaw

    That luscious lip, the British Gyp,
    I leave to rove, a reckless ranger,
    To seek a life, with War for wife,
    Defying Death, despising danger;
    Yet while I speed from field to field,
    Enamored of the stranger’s daughter,
    I know the best that earth can yield
    Are nested by the British water.

    Her lithe, blithe form outbraves the storm
    That spreads disaster in its shadow,
    And when it clears, her form appears
    A flower upon the greening meadow;
    And if, for fame, you’ll have me name
    The land of most bewitching daughters,
    My heart replies, with softening sighs,
    The land begirt by British waters.

    Her starry eye lets arrows fly,
    That pierce the ice of arctic reason;
    The kiss that thrills, the glance that kills,
    Make wild the wise and laugh at Treason;
    And when, a soldier on parade,
    Beyond the bourne of British waters,
    My eyes are on the stranger maid,
    My heart is with the English daughters.