By Owen Oliver.

You'll be sure to know my daddy,
'Cause he wears a coat of red.
An' a rifle, an' a bay'net,
An' a helmet on his head.
An' he's very big an' handsome,
An' his name is Sergeant Smith,
An' he's gone to fight the Boers
That our Queen is angry with.
He's the good Queen's faithful soldier,
So he's angry, too, of course—
I expects they will be frightened
When they know my daddy's cross!
Daddy took me up and nursed me
'For he went on Friday week;
"Sonny-boy," he said, "Here's sixpence,
Bless you, lad!" and kissed my cheek,
"Mind you write to me and tell me
How you're doing at your books,
How the baby's learning walking,
How your little sister looks,
How you're good and helping mother—
That's the news I want to find."
Mine is only printing writing,
But my daddy doesn't mind.
I'm my daddy's little soldier,
An I've often heard him say,
Soldiers ought to do their duty
Though their officer's away.
Mamma says my duty's doing
Just what daddy said I should;
But it's hard to do my lessons;
And its harder to be good!
Teacher says, "Just keep on trying,
They'll come easy by-an'-by;"
Mamma says I do grow better,
And she'll write an' say I try.
Won't he smile! unless they've shot him!
Mamma said perhaps they would;
An' she cried and cried till I cried—
But I don't believe they could.
No one couldn't hurt my daddy;
If they did, when I grow tall,
I shall take a sword and rifle,
An' I'll go and kill them all.
If I woke up big to-morrow,
Off to battle I should go;
Then I'd see who'd touch my daddy—
Please, dear God, do make me grow!