Porridge Tragedy

(to the tune of Clementine)

In a camp down in the country

Dwelt some Guides on holiday.

23 there were in number

Quite enough to take away.

In the camp, there was a Girl Guide

Who was like most little girls.

She was either up to mischief

Or was kicking up a noise.

Rose she early every morning

At precisely half past four,

Then she's go out and shout her war cries

Far too near the Guider's door.

Then the Guider, then the Guider,

Soon began to jump and roar.

Just because that silly Girl Guide

Wouldn't let her be and snore.

So she made the early riser

Take the porridge spoon and stir

First explaining how to do it

Lest an accident occur.

Then the Girl Guide, very anxious

Thought the porridge she could smell.

Put her head into the dixie,

Lost her balance, in she fell.

Saw her head above the porridge

She was looking mighty red.

How she wished that she'd kept silent,

And kept to her little bed.

When the Guides went down for breakfast,

There were only 22.

Though the Guider called it porridge

They all thought that it was stew.

All you Girl Guides, old and youthful,

Bear in mind this story sad.

Never spoil your Guider's slumber.

Lest your fate should be as bad.