"Smith" indeed but briefly served him, and his former appellation
In its aptness seized the fancy of the regimental wag,
When an apoplectic Colonel gasped, "Of all the dashed, infernal. . . ."
As this Private Smith saluted, with "Ribuck, Sir! Got a fag?"
What he thought, or how he marvelled at the unfamiliar customs
Of those ancient and historic lands that later met his eyes,
He was never heard to mention; though he voiced one bold contention,
That the absence of wire fences marked a lack of enterprise.
Soon his shrewd resource, his deftness, won him fame in many places.
Things he did with wire and whipcord moved his company to brag.
And when aught concerning horses called for knowledge in the forces
Came a hurried, anxious message, "Hang the vet! Send Got-a-Fag!"
Then, one morning, he was missing, and a soldier who had seen him
Riding for the foe's entrenchments bade his mates abandon hope.
