The Driver ’umped ‘is shoulder, for the
wheels was goin’ round,
An’ there ain’t no “Stop, conductor!”
when a batt’ry’s changin’ ground;
Sez ‘e: “I broke the beggar in,
an’ very sad I feels,
But I couldn’t pull up, not for you—your
’ead between your ’eels!”
’E ’adn’t ‘ardly spoke the
word, before a droppin’ shell
A little right the batt’ry an’ between
the sections fell;
An’ when the smoke ’ad cleared away, before
the limber wheels,
There lay the Driver’s Brother with ’is
’ead between ’is ’eels.
Then sez the Driver’s Brother, an’ ’is
words was very plain,
“For Gawd’s own sake get over me, an’
put me out o’ pain.”
They saw ‘is wounds was mortial, an’ they
judged that it was best,
So they took an’ drove the limber straight across
‘is back an’ chest.
The Driver ‘e give nothin’ ‘cept
a little coughin’ grunt,
But ’e swung ’is ’orses ’andsome
when it came to “Action Front!”
An’ if one wheel was juicy, you may lay your
Monday head
’Twas juicier for the niggers when the case
begun to spread.
The moril of this story, it is plainly to be seen:
You ‘avn’t got no families when servin’
of the Queen—
You ’avn’t 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!
’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!)
