Barrack-Room Ballads | Page 9

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!)
Belts
There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay, Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree;?It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark:?The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park.
For it was: -- "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!" An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!" O buckle an' tongue?Was the song that we sung?From Harrison's down to the Park!
There was a row in Silver Street -- the regiments was out,?They called us "Delhi Rebels", an' we answered "Threes about!" That drew them like a hornet's nest -- we met them good an' large, The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge.
Then it was: -- "Belts . . .
There was a row in Silver Street -- an' I was in it too;?We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru! I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm?A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
O it was: -- "Belts . . .
There was a row in Silver Street -- they sent the Polis there, The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care;?But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,?Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es.
For it was: -- "Belts . . .
There was a row in Silver Street -- it might ha' raged till now, But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how;?'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run: An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun.
While it was: -- "Belts . . .
There was a row in Silver Street -- but that put down the shine, Wid each man whisperin' to his next: "'Twas never work o' mine!" We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him, The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him.
When it was: -- "Belts . . .
There was a row in Silver Street -- it isn't over yet,?For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;?'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:?There was a row in Silver Street -- begod, I wonder why!
But it was: -- "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!" An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!" O buckle an' tongue?Was the song that we sung?From Harrison's down to the Park!
The Young British Soldier
When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East?'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,?An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,?Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,?Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!
Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,?You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,?An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .
First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,?For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts -- Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .
When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --?Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,?For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .
But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:?You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:?If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .
If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,?Don't grouse like a