Barrack Room Ballads

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! – barbarious 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!)

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 woman nor crack on nor blind;   Be handy and civil, and then you will find      That it’s beer for the young British soldier.         Beer, beer, beer for the soldier…   Now, if you must marry, take care she is old —   A troop-sergeant’s widow’s the nicest I’m told,   For beauty won’t help if your rations is cold,      Nor love ain’t enough for a soldier.         ‘Nough, ‘nough, ‘nough for a soldier…   If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath   To shoot when you catch ‘em – you’ll swing, on my oath! —   Make ‘im take ‘er and keep ‘er:  that’s Hell for them both,      An’ you’re shut o’ the curse of a soldier.         Curse, curse, curse of a soldier…   When first under fire an’ you’re wishful to duck,   Don’t look nor take ‘eed at the man that is struck,   Be thankful you’re livin’, and trust to your luck      And march to your front like a soldier.         Front, front, front like a soldier…   When ‘arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,   Don’t call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;   She’s human as you are – you treat her as sich,      An’ she’ll fight for the young British soldier.         Fight, fight, fight for the soldier…   When shakin’ their bustles like ladies so fine,   The guns o’ the enemy wheel into line,   Shoot low at the limbers an’ don’t mind the shine,      For noise never startles the soldier.         Start-, start-, startles the soldier…   If your officer’s dead and the sergeants look white,   Remember it’s ruin to run from a fight:   So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,      And wait for supports like a soldier.         Wait, wait, wait like a soldier…   When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,   And the women come out to cut up what remains,   Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains      An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.         Go, go, go like a soldier,         Go, go, go like a soldier,         Go, go, go like a soldier,            So-oldier of the Queen!

Mandalay

   By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ eastward to the sea,   There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she thinks o’ me;   For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:   “Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!”        Come you back to Mandalay,       Where the old Flotilla lay:       Can’t you ‘ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay?       On the road to Mandalay,       Where the flyin’-fishes play,       An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!   ‘Er petticoat was yaller an’ ‘er little cap was green,   An’ ‘er name was Supi-yaw-lat – jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen,   An’ I seed her first a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white cheroot,   An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ‘eathen idol’s foot:       Bloomin’ idol made o’mud —       Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd —       Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ‘er where she stud!       On the road to Mandalay…   When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was droppin’ slow,   She’d git ‘er little banjo an’ she’d sing “Kulla-lo-lo!”    With ‘er arm upon my shoulder an’ ‘er cheek agin’ my cheek   We useter watch the steamers an’ the hathis pilin’ teak.       Elephints a-pilin’ teak       In the sludgy, squdgy creek,       Where the silence ‘ung that ‘eavy you was ‘arf afraid to speak!       On the road to Mandalay…   But that’s all shove be’ind me – long ago an’ fur away,   An’ there ain’t no ‘busses runnin’ from the Bank to Mandalay;   An’ I’m learnin’ ‘ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:   “If you’ve ‘eard the East a-callin’, you won’t never ‘eed naught else.”        No! you won’t ‘eed nothin’ else       But them spicy garlic smells,       An’ the sunshine an’ the palm-trees an’ the tinkly temple-bells;       On the road to Mandalay…   I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gritty pavin’-stones,   An’ the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;   Tho’ I walks with fifty ‘ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,   An’ they talks a lot o’ lovin’, but wot do they understand?       Beefy face an’ grubby ‘and —       Law! wot do they understand?       I’ve a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!       On the road to Mandalay…   Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,   Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a thirst;   For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be —   By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;       On the road to Mandalay,       Where the old Flotilla lay,       With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!       On the road to Mandalay,       Where the flyin’-fishes play,       An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

Troopin’

(Our Army in the East)   Troopin’, troopin’, troopin’ to the sea:   ‘Ere’s September come again – the six-year men are free.   O leave the dead be’ind us, for they cannot come away   To where the ship’s a-coalin’ up that takes us ‘ome to-day.      We’re goin’ ‘ome, we’re goin’ ‘ome,       Our ship is at the shore,      An’ you must pack your ‘aversack,       For we won’t come back no more.      Ho, don’t you grieve for me,       My lovely Mary-Ann,      For I’ll marry you yit on a fourp’ny bit       As a time-expired man.   The Malabar’s in ‘arbour with the Jumner at ‘er tail,   An’ the time-expired’s waitin’ of ‘is orders for to sail.   Ho! the weary waitin’ when on Khyber ‘ills we lay,   But the time-expired’s waitin’ of ‘is orders ‘ome to-day.   They’ll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an’ wet an’ rain,   All wearin’ Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain;   They’ll kill us of pneumonia – for that’s their little way —   But damn the chills and fever, men, we’re goin’ ‘ome to-day!   Troopin’, troopin’, winter’s round again!   See the new draf’s pourin’ in for the old campaign;   Ho, you poor recruities, but you’ve got to earn your pay —   What’s the last from Lunnon, lads?  We’re goin’ there to-day.   Troopin’, troopin’, give another cheer —   ‘Ere’s to English women an’ a quart of English beer.   The Colonel an’ the regiment an’ all who’ve got to stay,   Gawd’s mercy strike ‘em gentle – Whoop! we’re goin’ ‘ome to-day.       We’re goin’ ‘ome, we’re goin’ ‘ome,        Our ship is at the shore,       An’ you must pack your ‘aversack,        For we won’t come back no more.       Ho, don’t you grieve for me,        My lovely Mary-Ann,       For I’ll marry you yit on a fourp’ny bit        As a time-expired man.

The Widow’s Party

   “Where have you been this while away,       Johnnie, Johnnie?”    ‘Long with the rest on a picnic lay,       Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!   They called us out of the barrack-yard   To Gawd knows where from Gosport Hard,   And you can’t refuse when you get the card,       And the Widow gives the party.          (Bugle:  Ta – rara – ra-ra-rara!)   “What did you get to eat and drink,       Johnnie, Johnnie?”    Standing water as thick as ink,       Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!   A bit o’ beef that were three year stored,   A bit o’ mutton as tough as a board,   And a fowl we killed with a sergeant’s sword,       When the Widow give the party.   “What did you do for knives and forks,       Johnnie, Johnnie?”    We carries ‘em with us wherever we walks,       Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!   And some was sliced and some was halved,   And some was crimped and some was carved,   And some was gutted and some was starved,      When the Widow give the party.   “What ha’ you done with half your mess,       Johnnie, Johnnie?”    They couldn’t do more and they wouldn’t do less,       Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!   They ate their whack and they drank their fill,   And I think the rations has made them ill,   For half my comp’ny’s lying still       Where the Widow give the party.   “How did you get away – away,       Johnnie, Johnnie?”    On the broad o’ my back at the end o’ the day,       Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!   I comed away like a bleedin’ toff,   For I got four niggers to carry me off,   As I lay in the bight of a canvas trough,       When the Widow give the party.   “What was the end of all the show,       Johnnie, Johnnie?”    Ask my Colonel, for I don’t know,       Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!   We broke a King and we built a road —   A court-house stands where the reg’ment goed.   And the river’s clean where the raw blood flowed       When the Widow give the party.          (Bugle:  Ta – rara – ra-ra-rara!)

Ford o’ Kabul River

   Kabul town’s by Kabul river —    Blow the bugle, draw the sword —   There I lef’ my mate for ever,    Wet an’ drippin’ by the ford.       Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,        Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!       There’s the river up and brimmin’, an’ there’s ‘arf a squadron swimmin’        ‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.   Kabul town’s a blasted place —    Blow the bugle, draw the sword —   ‘Strewth I sha’n’t forget ‘is face    Wet an’ drippin’ by the ford!       Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,        Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!       Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an’ they will surely guide you        ‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.   Kabul town is sun and dust —    Blow the bugle, draw the sword —   I’d ha’ sooner drownded fust    ‘Stead of ‘im beside the ford.       Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,        Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!       You can ‘ear the ‘orses threshin’, you can ‘ear the men a-splashin’,        ‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.   Kabul town was ours to take —    Blow the bugle, draw the sword —   I’d ha’ left it for ‘is sake —    ‘Im that left me by the ford.       Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,        Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!       It’s none so bloomin’ dry there; ain’t you never comin’ nigh there,        ‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark?   Kabul town’ll go to hell —    Blow the bugle, draw the sword —   ‘Fore I see him ‘live an’ well —    ‘Im the best beside the ford.       Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,        Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!       Gawd ‘elp ‘em if they blunder, for their boots’ll pull ‘em under,        By the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.   Turn your ‘orse from Kabul town —    Blow the bugle, draw the sword —   ‘Im an’ ‘arf my troop is down,    Down an’ drownded by the ford.       Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,        Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!       There’s the river low an’ fallin’, but it ain’t no use o’ callin’        ‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.

Gentlemen-Rankers

   To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,    To my brethren in their sorrow overseas,   Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely crammed,    And a trooper of the Empress, if you please.   Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses,    And faith he went the pace and went it blind,   And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin,    But to-day the Sergeant’s something less than kind.       We’re poor little lambs who’ve lost our way,          Baa!  Baa!  Baa!       We’re little black sheep who’ve gone astray,          Baa – aa – aa!       Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,       Damned from here to Eternity,       God ha’ mercy on such as we,          Baa!  Yah!  Bah!   Oh, it’s sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops,    And it’s sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell,   To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops    And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well.   Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be “Rider” to your troop,    And branded with a blasted worsted spur,   When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being cleanly    Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you “Sir”.   If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep,    And all we know most distant and most dear,   Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep,    Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?   When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern gutters    And the horror of our fall is written plain,   Every secret, self-revealing on the aching white-washed ceiling,    Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?   We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth,    We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,   And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.    God help us, for we knew the worst too young!   Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence,    Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,   And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us    And we die, and none can tell Them where we died.       We’re poor little lambs who’ve lost our way,          Baa!  Baa!  Baa!       We’re little black sheep who’ve gone astray,          Baa – aa – aa!       Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,       Damned from here to Eternity,       God ha’ mercy on such as we,          Baa!  Yah!  Bah!

Route Marchin’

   We’re marchin’ on relief over Injia’s sunny plains,   A little front o’ Christmas-time an’ just be’ind the Rains;   Ho! get away you bullock-man, you’ve ‘eard the bugle blowed,   There’s a regiment a-comin’ down the Grand Trunk Road;       With its best foot first       And the road a-sliding past,       An’ every bloomin’ campin’-ground exactly like the last;       While the Big Drum says,       With ‘is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!” —       “Kiko kissywarsti don’t you hamsher argy jow?”    Oh, there’s them Injian temples to admire when you see,   There’s the peacock round the corner an’ the monkey up the tree,   An’ there’s that rummy silver grass a-wavin’ in the wind,   An’ the old Grand Trunk a-trailin’ like a rifle-sling be’ind.       While it’s best foot first…   At half-past five’s Revelly, an’ our tents they down must come,   Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick ‘em up at ‘ome.   But it’s over in a minute, an’ at six the column starts,   While the women and the kiddies sit an’ shiver in the carts.       An’ it’s best foot first…   Oh, then it’s open order, an’ we lights our pipes an’ sings,   An’ we talks about our rations an’ a lot of other things,   An’ we thinks o’ friends in England, an’ we wonders what they’re at,   An’ ‘ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.       An’ it’s best foot first…   It’s none so bad o’ Sunday, when you’re lyin’ at your ease,   To watch the kites a-wheelin’ round them feather-’eaded trees,   For although there ain’t no women, yet there ain’t no barrick-yards,   So the orficers goes shootin’ an’ the men they plays at cards.       Till it’s best foot first…   So ‘ark an’ ‘eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin’ sore,   There’s worser things than marchin’ from Umballa to Cawnpore;   An’ if your ‘eels are blistered an’ they feels to ‘urt like ‘ell,   You drop some tallow in your socks an’ that will make ‘em well.       For it’s best foot first…   We’re marchin’ on relief over Injia’s coral strand,   Eight ‘undred fightin’ Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;   Ho! get away you bullock-man, you’ve ‘eard the bugle blowed,   There’s a regiment a-comin’ down the Grand Trunk Road;       With its best foot first       And the road a-sliding past,       An’ every bloomin’ campin’-ground exactly like the last;       While the Big Drum says,       With ‘is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!” —       “Kiko kissywarsti don’t you hamsher argy jow?”

Shillin’ a Day

   My name is O’Kelly, I’ve heard the Revelly   From Birr to Bareilly, from Leeds to Lahore,   Hong-Kong and Peshawur,   Lucknow and Etawah,   And fifty-five more all endin’ in “pore”.   Black Death and his quickness, the depth and the thickness,   Of sorrow and sickness I’ve known on my way,   But I’m old and I’m nervis,   I’m cast from the Service,   And all I deserve is a shillin’ a day.    (Chorus)  Shillin’ a day,                Bloomin’ good pay —                Lucky to touch it, a shillin’ a day!   Oh, it drives me half crazy to think of the days I   Went slap for the Ghazi, my sword at my side,   When we rode Hell-for-leather   Both squadrons together,   That didn’t care whether we lived or we died.   But it’s no use despairin’, my wife must go charin’   An’ me commissairin’ the pay-bills to better,   So if me you be’old   In the wet and the cold,   By the Grand Metropold, won’t you give me a letter?    (Full chorus)  Give ‘im a letter —                     ‘Can’t do no better,                     Late Troop-Sergeant-Major an’ – runs with a letter!                     Think what ‘e’s been,                     Think what ‘e’s seen,                     Think of his pension an’ —                     Gawd save the Queen

Second Series (1896)

‘Bobs’

   There’s a little red-faced man,          Which is Bobs,   Rides the tallest ‘orse ‘e can-          Our Bobs,   If it bucks or kicks or rears,   ‘E can sit for twenty years   With a smile round both ‘is ears-         Can’t yer, Bobs?   Then ‘ere’s to Bobs Bahadur-        Little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!   ‘E’s or pukka Kandaharder-        Fightin’ Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!   ‘E’s the Dook of Aggy Chel;   ‘E’s the man that done us well,   An’ we’ll follow ‘im to ‘ell-        Won’t we Bobs?   If a limber’s slipped a trace,        ‘Ook on Bobs.   If a marker’s lost ‘is place,        Dress by Bobs.   For ‘e’s eyes all up ‘is coat,   An’ a bugle in ‘is throat,   An’ you will not play the goat        Under Bobs.   ‘E’s a little down on drink,         Chaplain Bobs;   But it keeps us outer Clink-        Don’t it Bobs?   So we will not complain   Tho’ ‘e’s water on the brain,   If ‘e leads us straight again-        Blue-light Bobs.   If you stood ‘im on ‘is head        Father Bobs,   You could spill a quart o’ lead        Outer Bobs.   ‘E’s been at it thirty years,   An’ amassin souveneers   In the way o’ slugs an’ spears-        Ain’t yer, Bobs?   What ‘e does not Know o’ war,        Gen’ral Bobs,   You can arst the shop next door-       Can’t they, Bobs?   Oh, ‘e’s little, but he’s wise;   ‘E’s a terror for ‘is size,   An’-’e-does-not-advertise-       Do yer, Bobs?   Now they’ve made a bloomin’ Lord        Outer Bobs,   Which was but ‘is fair reward-         Weren’t it Bobs?   So ‘e’ll wear a coronet   Where ‘is ‘elmet used to set;   But we know you won’t forget-        Will yer, Bobs?   Then ‘ere’s to Bobs Bahadur —       Little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!   Pocket-Wellin’ton an’ arder —       Fightin’ Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!   This ain’t no bloomin’ ode,   But you’ve ‘elped the soldier’s load,   An’ for benefits bestowed,       Bless yer, Bobs!

‘Back to the Army Again’

   I’m ‘ere in a ticky ulster an’ a broken billycock ‘at,   A-layin’ on to the sergeant I don’t know a gun from a bat;   My shirt’s doin’ duty for jacket, my sock’s stickin’ out o’ my boots,   An’ I’m learnin’ the damned old goose-step along o’ the new recruits!      Back to the Army again, sergeant,       Back to the Army again.      Don’t look so ‘ard, for I ‘aven’t no card,       I’m back to the Army again!   I done my six years’ service.  ‘Er Majesty sez:  “Good-day —   You’ll please to come when you’re rung for, an’ ‘ere’s your ‘ole back-pay;   An’ fourpence a day for baccy – an’ bloomin’ gen’rous, too;   An’ now you can make your fortune – the same as your orf’cers do.”      Back to the Army again, sergeant,       Back to the Army again;      ‘Ow did I learn to do right-about turn?       I’m back to the Army again!   A man o’ four-an’-twenty that ‘asn’t learned of a trade —   Beside “Reserve” agin’ him – ‘e’d better be never made.   I tried my luck for a quarter, an’ that was enough for me,   An’ I thought of ‘Er Majesty’s barricks, an’ I thought I’d go an’ see.      Back to the Army again, sergeant,       Back to the Army again;      ‘Tisn’t my fault if I dress when I ‘alt —       I’m back to the Army again!   The sergeant arst no questions, but ‘e winked the other eye,   ‘E sez to me, “‘Shun!” an’ I shunted, the same as in days gone by;   For ‘e saw the set o’ my shoulders, an’ I couldn’t ‘elp ‘oldin’ straight   When me an’ the other rookies come under the barrick-gate.      Back to the Army again, sergeant,       Back to the Army again;      ‘Oo would ha’ thought I could carry an’ port?       I’m back to the Army again!   I took my bath, an’ I wallered – for, Gawd, I needed it so!   I smelt the smell o’ the barricks, I ‘eard the bugles go.   I ‘eard the feet on the gravel – the feet o’ the men what drill —   An’ I sez to my flutterin’ ‘eart-strings, I sez to ‘em, “Peace, be still!”      Back to the Army again, sergeant,       Back to the Army again;      ‘Oo said I knew when the Jumner was due?       I’m back to the Army again!   I carried my slops to the tailor; I sez to ‘im, “None o’ your lip!   You tight ‘em over the shoulders, an’ loose ‘em over the ‘ip,   For the set o’ the tunic’s ‘orrid.”  An’ ‘e sez to me, “Strike me dead,   But I thought you was used to the business!” an’ so ‘e done what I said.      Back to the Army again, sergeant,       Back to the Army again.      Rather too free with my fancies?  Wot – me?       I’m back to the Army again!   Next week I’ll ‘ave ‘em fitted; I’ll buy me a swagger-cane;   They’ll let me free o’ the barricks to walk on the Hoe again   In the name o’ William Parsons, that used to be Edward Clay,   An’ – any pore beggar that wants it can draw my fourpence a day!      Back to the Army again, sergeant,       Back to the Army again:      Out o’ the cold an’ the rain, sergeant,       Out o’ the cold an’ the rain.                       ‘Oo’s there?   A man that’s too good to be lost you,    A man that is ‘andled an’ made —   A man that will pay what ‘e cost you    In learnin’ the others their trade – parade!   You’re droppin’ the pick o’ the Army    Because you don’t ‘elp ‘em remain,   But drives ‘em to cheat to get out o’ the street    An’ back to the Army again!