Barrack-Room Ballads | Page 9

got no brothers,
fathers, sisters, wives, or sons -- If you want to win your battles take an'
work your bloomin' guns!
Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;
Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e
swears;
But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog
Turns the
bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!
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