'TWAS red hot weather on Croydon field— The days were bad, but the nights were worse, For the sultry nights no respite yield And mosquitoes there are a flaming curse: They'd devour a man in a night, I bet, If he didn't have a mosquito-net. The man, or the madman, who sought repose Without his curtains was courting death; Blankets were "off", and the thought of clothes Brought stifling sensations and gasps for breath. We'd lie on the top of our bunks and sweat Stark naked beneath a mosquito-net. A cry of "Murder!" rang through the night. We didn't stir—it was beastly dark; And it wasn't @3our@1 funeral—let @3'em@1 fight; Or it might be someone having a lark. Besides it would cause us extreme regret To have to quit our mosquito-net. But Paddy Minogue, in the tent next ours, Excitable fellow! was not the one To lie at ease—"be the holy powers"— While murder most foul was being done. In a moment Minogue was out of his tent Arrayed in his boots and away he went. The cries receded as Paddy neared, And shortly ceased and the night was still. The deadly deed had been done, he feared, He fossicked about the foot of the hill In his office of good Samaritan, But failed to discover a wounded man. Pat's only apparel was on his feet, So Pat, in his nakedness, being beset By swarms of mosquitoes made haste to retreat To the folds of his white mosquito-net. But torrents of "language" found sudden vent The moment Minogue re-entered his tent. "What are you prayin' for, mate?" we cried, As the crimson stream of his speech flowed on, "Oh! the black-hearted villains!" poor Pat replied— "Me lovely musketeer curtain's gone." The "murder" was simply a scheme to get Poor Paddy Minogue's mosquito-net. |