         I have made for you a song,
         And it may be right or wrong,
     But only you can tell me if it’s true;
         I have tried for to explain
         Both your pleasure and your pain,
     And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to you!

        O there’ll surely come a day
         When they’ll give you all your pay,
     And treat you as a Christian ought to do;
         So, until that day comes round,
         Heaven keep you safe and sound,
     And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to you!

R. K.

First Series (1892)

Danny Deever

   “What are the bugles blowin’ for?” said Files-on-Parade.
   “To turn you out, to turn you out”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
   “What makes you look so white, so white?” said Files-on-Parade.
   “I’m dreadin’ what I’ve got to watch”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
       For they’re hangin’ Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
       The regiment’s in ‘ollow square – they’re hangin’ him to-day;
       They’ve taken of his buttons off an’ cut his stripes away,
       An’ they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

   “What makes the rear-rank breathe so ‘ard?” said Files-on-Parade.
   “It’s bitter cold, it’s bitter cold”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
   “What makes that front-rank man fall down?” said Files-on-Parade.
   “A touch o’ sun, a touch o’ sun”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
       They are hangin’ Danny Deever, they are marchin’ of ‘im round,
       They ‘ave ‘alted Danny Deever by ‘is coffin on the ground;
       An’ ‘e’ll swing in ‘arf a minute for a sneakin’ shootin’ hound —
       O they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!

   “‘Is cot was right-’and cot to mine”, said Files-on-Parade.
   “‘E’s sleepin’ out an’ far to-night”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
   “I’ve drunk ‘is beer a score o’ times”, said Files-on-Parade.
   “‘E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
       They are hangin’ Danny Deever, you must mark ‘im to ‘is place,
       For ‘e shot a comrade sleepin’ – you must look ‘im in the face;
       Nine ‘undred of ‘is county an’ the regiment’s disgrace,
       While they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

   “What’s that so black agin’ the sun?” said Files-on-Parade.
   “It’s Danny fightin’ ‘ard for life”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
   “What’s that that whimpers over’ead?” said Files-on-Parade.
   “It’s Danny’s soul that’s passin’ now”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
       For they’re done with Danny Deever, you can ‘ear the quickstep play,
       The regiment’s in column, an’ they’re marchin’ us away;
       Ho! the young recruits are shakin’, an’ they’ll want their beer to-day,
       After hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

Tommy

   I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
   The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
    The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
   I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
       O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
       But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play,
       The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
       O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.

   I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
   They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none for me;
   They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
   But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!
       For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
       But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
       The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
       O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.

   Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
   Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
   An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
   Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
       Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ‘ow’s yer soul?”
        But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
       The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
       O it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

   We aren’t no thin red ‘eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
   But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
   An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
   Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;
       While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind”,
       But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind,
       There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
       O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind.

   You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
   We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
   Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
   The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
       For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”
        But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
       An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
       An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool – you bet that Tommy sees!

Fuzzy-Wuzzy

   (Soudan Expeditionary Force)
   We’ve fought with many men acrost the seas,
     An’ some of ‘em was brave an’ some was not:
   The Paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese;
     But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot.
   We never got a ha’porth’s change of ‘im:
     ‘E squatted in the scrub an’ ‘ocked our ‘orses,
   ‘E cut our sentries up at Suakim,
     An’ ‘e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces.
       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;
       We gives you your certificate, an’ if you want it signed
       We’ll come an’ ‘ave a romp with you whenever you’re inclined.

   We took our chanst among the Khyber ‘ills,
     The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
   The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
     An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style:
   But all we ever got from such as they
     Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
   We ‘eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say,
     But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ‘oller.
       Then ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid;
       Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went an’ did.
       We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it wasn’t ‘ardly fair;
       But for all the odds agin’ you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.

   ‘E ‘asn’t got no papers of ‘is own,
     ‘E ‘asn’t got no medals nor rewards,
   So we must certify the skill ‘e’s shown
     In usin’ of ‘is long two-’anded swords:
   When ‘e’s ‘oppin’ in an’ out among the bush
     With ‘is coffin-’eaded shield an’ shovel-spear,
   An ‘appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
     Will last an ‘ealthy Tommy for a year.
       So ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which are no more,
       If we ‘adn’t lost some messmates we would ‘elp you to deplore;
       But give an’ take’s the gospel, an’ we’ll call the bargain fair,
       For if you ‘ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!

   ‘E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
     An’, before we know, ‘e’s ‘ackin’ at our ‘ead;
   ‘E’s all ‘ot sand an’ ginger when alive,
     An’ ‘e’s generally shammin’ when ‘e’s dead.
   ‘E’s a daisy, ‘e’s a ducky, ‘e’s a lamb!
     ‘E’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
   ‘E’s 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 what our road was —
             the wild-goat ‘e knows where we passed.
   Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin’s!
             Out drag-ropes! With shrapnel! Hold fast – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!
       For you all love the screw-guns – the screw-guns they all love you!
       So when we take tea 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 may hide in the caves, they’ll be only your graves,
                 but you can’t get away from the guns!