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ARTHUR

 
'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere? sez I;
'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere?
'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, so you 'aven't got
nothin' to fear.'
But 'e marched me 'ere, an' 'e marched me there,
To burn blank cartridges everywhere;
An' 'e made me sweat, an' 'e made me swear —
Did Arthur!
 
 
Wot can the Gen'ral do? sez I;
Wot can the Gen'ral do?
'O, 'e 's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e don't know
much about you!'
But 'e doubled me round on a big field day:
An' 'e checked me for loafin' – a mile away!
An' I found there's a time for work an' play
With Arthur!
 
 
Wot 'as the Gen'ral done, sez I?
Wot 'as the Gen'ral done?
'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' they chucked 'im 'is
rank for fun!'
But that was a lie, for I found out since
'E's ninepence a soldier an' thruppence a prince!
'E stood fire in Egypt, an' 'e didn't wince!
Not Arthur!
 
 
Wot does the Gen'ral know? sez I;
Wot does the Gen'ral know?
'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e 's on'y
got up for show!'
But I 'chanced' kit inspection, an' thought it a 'cert.';
But 'e put me down, smart, for a tunic an' shirt!
An', insult to injury – checked me for dirt!
Did Arthur!
 
 
'Ow is 'e liked by you? sez I;
'Ow is 'e liked by you?
'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, but I reckon
some'ow 'e'll do!'
I'm willin' to risk, as I've done before,
A Fox 'Ills fight, or a native war,
Or front rank man in an Army Corps,
With Arthur!
 
 
Wot is 'e, after all? sez I;
Wot is 'e, after all?
'O, 'e's a swaddle, the same as you, an' 'e goes to the
"orficers' call"!'
'E's a gentleman, Tommy, when all's said an' done!
'Is ma is the lady 'oo 's second to none,
An' we love 'er the better because of 'er son —
That's Arthur!
 

LEGACIES

 
The dog is yours; and so's the photo frames,
Them pictures wot I cut, an' my new box.
The pack of cards, the dominoes, an' games,
The knittin' needles, an' the knitted socks,
An' all, except the letters and the ring —
You'll find them all together tied with string.
 
 
My public clothin' – that goes back to stores —
My kit'll sell by auction on the square;
An' other fellers will be 'formin' fours'
An' 'markin' time' in boots I used to wear.
They're welcome; but you won't forget to send
The ring an' all the letters to my – friend?
 
 
The pain ain't near so bad as wot it were
The day they dragged me from the limber wheels;
Ain't I a wreck! for God's sake don't tell 'er;
Say it was fever – peaceful – in the 'ills;
An' write about the wreaths, the 'Jack,' and band,
An' – send a bit of hair: you understand?
 
 
The ring – Oh no, the doctor lets me talk,
I ain't a-tirin' – 'cept a funny light,
An' just a feelin' that I'd like to walk
To where it seems to flicker in the night.
Better for me to go with aching 'ead,
Than go in trouble with my say unsaid.
 
 
The ring – it ain't long since she sent it back;
I never meant no 'arm, God only knows,
But things – I can't tell now – looked very black,
And she believed the others – I suppose,
I'm sorry for 'er now – that cursed wheel! —
You see she is a woman, an' she'll feel.
 

* * * * *

 
The dog is yours, I told you that before.
The spurs you'll find 'em in my private kit.
The letters, an' the ring, an' nothin' more, —
An' hair – it's foolish – but a little bit.
 

* * * * *

 
'Our Father' – Lord, how strange! It's all – ri' – sir.
The – lett – an – th' – ring – an' – hair – for – 'er!
 

T. A. IN LOVE

 
Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!
Sittin' with my elbow on my knee.
I orter be a polishin' the meat-dish an' the can —
(I orter draw the groceries – for I am ord'ly man!
But wot are bloomin' ration calls, an' wot's a pot or pan,
When I'm dreaming O my darlin' one, of thee?)
Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!
 
 
Firin' at the rifle range I be.
I've missed a fust-class targit – an' I've missed the 'ill be'ind!
I nearly shot a marker once! (which wasn't very kind);
The orficer 'e swears at me – but re'ly, I don't mind!
I am dreamin', O my darlin' one, of thee!
 
 
Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!
Me, as was the smartest man in 'B'!
My kit is all untidy, and it's inches thick in dust;
An' my rifle's fouled an' filthy, an' my bay'nit's red with rust;
They've tried to find the reason – but I've seen 'em furder fust!
An' they never guess I'm dreamin', dear, of thee!
 
 
Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!
They can't make out wot's comin' over me.
The fellows think I'm barmy, an' the Major thinks it's drink,
The Sergeant thought it laziness, so shoved me in the clink!
The Colonel called it 'thoughtlessness,' so gave me time to think,
An' to dream again, my darlin' one, of thee!
 
 
Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!
Wot's two 'ours' sentry-go to me?
A sittin' in the sentry-box, a-thinkin' of your eyes,
The ord'ly orficer come along, an' took me by surprise!
'E said as I was sleepin' – an' the usual orfice lies!
When I was on'y dreamin', love, of thee!
 
 
Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!
Rubbin' tarry oakum on my knee!
Oh, when I weigh that oakum in, I know I'll cop it 'ot!
I'll be 'auled before the Gov'nor, an' I'll git an 'our's shot;
But whether I git punishment, or whether I do not,
They can't prevent me dreamin', love, of thee!
 

TOMMY ADVISES

 
Take your rifle from the rack:
Take your bay'nit from the shelf;
Clean your straps for marchin' order,
An' git ready for the Border.
For it ain't no sham attack,
So you needn't kid yourself.
It's a ball an' bay'nit action
With the perfect satisfaction
Of a medal, an' a ribbon, and perhaps a clasp or two.
For a-doin' of the little job your betters couldn't do.
 
 
Pack your socks, an' fold your shirt,
Wash your water-bottle out,
It'll make your marchin' easy
If your boots are nice an' greasy, —
An' some dubbin wouldn't 'urt.
You can chuck your weight about;
There's an 'appy day before you,
When the civvies will adore you,
And the things wot used to shock 'em will be favoured with a smile.
And your little faults an' failin's won't be noticed for a while.
 
 
Git a guernsey out of store —
Winter's very cold above,
An' the wind an' rain will find you
If you leave your clothes behind you!
Trust your pretty self before
Any Quartermaster's love;
For there's no store to go unto
An' no tailors' shops to run to;
For it ain't no ten days' skirmish these manoeuvres wot you're in,
An' a little flannel weskit 'ides a multitood of skin!
 
 
Write your letters for the mail;
Tell your people all the news —
For your folks'll prize the writin'
Of 'my son who's out a-fightin'.'
Don't you spin an awful tale,
Just to give your mother blues,
For the day the boys are cryin'
'List o' wounded, dead and dyin'!'
Will be tons of time for them at 'ome to feel a trifle blue,
When they see a dozen Smiths are killed – and wonder which is you!
 

THE NUMBER ONE

 
The number one, 'e's on the bridge,
There's goin' to be a row,
The Gold Coast is upon our port,
An', 'ull down, on our bow;
Makin' for 'ome for all she's worth —
A slaver's bloomin' dhow!
 
 
The number one is on the bridge,
The buntin' tosser's aft;
An' down below, in the 'eat an' glow,
The men are at their graft.
They've peeled their shirts, to get the steam,
To over-'aul that craft.
 
 
The number one is in command,
The skipper's sick below,
A touch o' fever from the coast,
'As made the old man so;
But 'e's passed the word to the engineer,
'For Gawd's sake make 'er go!'
 
 
The 'gen'ral quarters' sounded orf,
The bugler's made a call
(A call that means the 'red' marines,
With fifty rounds of ball,
Are goin' to git a medal an' clasp,
Or an ensign for a pall!)
 
 
The number one is on the bridge,
The sun is low an' red!
An' shot an' shell, like fiends of 'ell,
Are shriekin' round 'is 'ead,
An' three marines are crippled,
An' their sergeant-major's dead!
 
 
The number one is on the bridge,
The dhow's a battered sight;
'Er rascal chief 'as come to grief;
'E's fought 'is final fight,
But the number one lies on the bridge,
An' 'is face is ghastly white.
 
 
A smile is on 'is bloodless lips,
'Is sword 'angs from 'is wrist,
And a lock of 'air of a maiden fair.
Is clasped in 'is bloodstained fist,
But 'e'll meet 'er at the great roll-call,
When they muster by 'open list'!