Barrack-Room Ballads | Page 5

the on'y thing that
doesn't give a damn
For a Regiment o' British Infantree!
So 'ere's to
you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; You're a pore
benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; An' 'ere's to you,
Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air -- You big black boundin'
beggar -- for you broke a British square!
Soldier, Soldier
"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Why don't you march with my
true love?"
"We're fresh from off the ship an' 'e's maybe give the slip,
An' you'd best go look for a new love."

New love! True love!
Best go look for a new love,
The dead they
cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, An' you'd best go look for a
new love.
"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
What did you see o' my true
love?"
"I seed 'im serve the Queen in a suit o' rifle-green,
An' you'd
best go look for a new love."
"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Did ye see no more o' my true
love?"
"I seed 'im runnin' by when the shots begun to fly --
But
you'd best go look for a new love."
"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Did aught take 'arm to my true
love?"
"I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white -- An'
you'd best go look for a new love."
"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
I'll up an' tend to my true love!"

"'E's lying on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead,
An' you'd best
go look for a new love."
"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
I'll down an' die with my true
love!"
"The pit we dug'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty men beside 'im -- An'
you'd best go look for a new love."
"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Do you bring no sign from my
true love?"
"I bring a lock of 'air that 'e allus used to wear,
An'
you'd best go look for a new love."
"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
O then I know it's true I've lost
my true love!"
"An' I tell you truth again -- when you've lost the feel
o' pain You'd best take me for your true love."
True love! New love!
Best take 'im for a new love,
The dead they
cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, An' you'd best take 'im for
your true love.

Screw-Guns
Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool, I walks in
my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule, With seventy
gunners be'ind me, an' never a beggar forgets
It's only the pick of the
Army
that handles the dear little pets -- 'Tss! 'Tss!
For you all love the
screw-guns -- the screw-guns they all love you! So when we call round
with a few guns,
o' course you will know what to do -- hoo! hoo! Jest send in your Chief
an' surrender --
it's worse if you fights or you runs:
You can go where you please, you
can skid up the trees,
but you don't get away from the guns!
They sends us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes where
they ain't: We'd climb up the side of a sign-board an' trust to the stick o'
the paint: We've chivied the Naga an' Looshai, we've give the
Afreedeeman fits, For we fancies ourselves at two thousand,
we guns that are built in two bits -- 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the
screw-guns . . .
If a man doesn't work, why, we drills 'im an' teaches 'im 'ow to behave;
If a beggar can't march, why, we kills 'im an' rattles 'im into 'is grave.
You've got to stand up to our business an' spring without snatchin' or
fuss. D'you say that you sweat with the field-guns?
By God, you must lather with us -- 'Tss! 'Tss!
For you all love the
screw-guns . . .
The eagles is screamin' around us, the river's a-moanin' below, We're
clear o' the pine an' the oak-scrub,

we're out on the rocks an' the snow,
An' the wind is as thin as a
whip-lash what carries away to the plains The rattle an' stamp o' the
lead-mules --
the jinglety-jink o' the chains -- 'Tss! 'Tss!
For you all love the
screw-guns . . .
There's a wheel on the Horns o' the Mornin',
an' a wheel on the edge o' the Pit,
An' a drop into nothin' beneath you
as straight as a beggar can spit: With the sweat runnin' out o' your
shirt-sleeves,
an' the sun off the snow in your face,
An' 'arf o' the men on the
drag-ropes
to hold the old gun in 'er place -- 'Tss! 'Tss!
For you all love the
screw-guns . . .
Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool, I climbs
in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule. The monkey can
say