The Widow at Windsor: The Colonial wargamer's poem?

This evening I am giving an online talk to the Bristol Masonic Society entitled RUDYARD KIPLING: MASON AND POET. I have done this talk many times before, but never online, so I had to prepare a PowerPoint presentation to go with my talk ... and whilst doing so I re-read for the umpteenth time his poem THE WIDOW AND WINDSOR.

I have shared this poem online before, but as I was reading it, it struck me that this was probably what I think of as the archetypal Colonial wargamer's poem ... so here it is again!

THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR

'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor
With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?
She 'as ships on the foam
– she 'as millions at 'ome,
An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
(Ow, poor beggars in red!)

There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,
There's 'er mark on the medical stores
– An' 'er troopers you'll find
with a fair wind be'ind
That takes us to various wars.
(Poor beggars! – barbarous wars!)

Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor
An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,
The men an' the 'orses
what makes up the forces
O' Missis Victorier's sons.
(Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)

Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
We 'ave bought 'er the same
with the sword an' the flame,
An' we've salted it down with our bones.
(Poor beggars! – it's blue with our bones!)

Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
For the Kings must come down
an' the Emperors frown
When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!
(Poor beggars! – we're sent to say "Stop"!)

Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
From the Pole to the Tropics it runs
– To the Lodge that we tile
with the rank an' the file,
An' open in form with the guns.
(Poor beggars! – it's always they guns!)

We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
It's safest to let 'er alone:
For 'er sentries we stand
by the sea an' the land
Wherever the bugles are blown.
(Poor beggars! – an' don't we get blown!)

Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',
An' flop round the earth till you're dead;
But you won't get away
from the tune that they play
To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.
(Poor beggars! – it's 'ot over'ead!)

Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
Wherever, 'owever they roam.
'Ere's all they desire,
an' if they require
A speedy return to their 'ome.
(Poor beggars! – they'll never see 'ome!)