Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket And say a poor buffer lies low, low, low; And six stalwart lancers shall carry me With steps mournful, solemn and slow. I know I shan't get to heaven, And I don't want to go below--ow--ow. Oh, ain't there some place in between them Where this poor buffer can go?
A brief variant of the one in the DT, from Sandburg, p. 436-437, The American Songbag, 1927. Frank Haworth, British Club, Havana. Why this is included in Sandburg is open to question. Americans would be more likely to use "duffer" or "bastard."