 | The Five Notions |  |
73
THE BOLD MILITIAMAN
“Her Majesty is by proclamation about to issue an
order for the embodiment of the Militia and the
Militia Reserve forces, or so much as Her Majesty
may think necessary for the permanent service.”
There ain't no kind of soldier
That matters less than we,
No sort of common Tommy
With much less pedigree,
No fighting man that's seen much less
Of bloody victory.
That matters less than we,
No sort of common Tommy
With much less pedigree,
No fighting man that's seen much less
Of bloody victory.
We join, of course, bein' stony
An' hankerin' after beer,
We stick because we're forced to,
We turns up once a year
And does our little bit of graft
Like a blawsted Wolumpteer.
An' hankerin' after beer,
We stick because we're forced to,
We turns up once a year
And does our little bit of graft
Like a blawsted Wolumpteer.
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We're under height an' weedy,
Splay-footed, cock-eyed, wrong
About our little chestises:
Our drill is trooly strong,
An' when you find us shootin' straight
You can put it in a song.
Splay-footed, cock-eyed, wrong
About our little chestises:
Our drill is trooly strong,
An' when you find us shootin' straight
You can put it in a song.
The Queen she has her Awmy,
Fine fellows for parade,
Done up in tasty tunics
An' sashes an' gold braid,
An' loved by all the slaveys,
An' cough-drops at their trade.
Fine fellows for parade,
Done up in tasty tunics
An' sashes an' gold braid,
An' loved by all the slaveys,
An' cough-drops at their trade.
The Queen she has her Awmy
And her Milishy too,
But the cheapest red and pipeclay
For us chaps has to do,
An' a quid a year's our income,
Which we never fail to blue.
And her Milishy too,
But the cheapest red and pipeclay
For us chaps has to do,
An' a quid a year's our income,
Which we never fail to blue.
The Queen she has her Awmy
To cross the stormy main,
To fight the foe an' lay him low
An' then come home again:
So that where our bloomin' chance comes in
Is not exactly plain.
To cross the stormy main,
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An' then come home again:
So that where our bloomin' chance comes in
Is not exactly plain.
“They also serve,” says Milting,
“Who only stand an' wait”;
Wherefore we'll mind the barracks
An' go sentry at the gate,
An' wonder what's the good of it
An' grumble to our mate.
“Who only stand an' wait”;
Wherefore we'll mind the barracks
An' go sentry at the gate,
An' wonder what's the good of it
An' grumble to our mate.
For there ain't no kind of soldier
That matters less than we,
No sort of common Tommy
With much less pedigree,
No fighting man that's seen much less
Of bloody victory.
That matters less than we,
No sort of common Tommy
With much less pedigree,
No fighting man that's seen much less
Of bloody victory.
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