'E 'ad n'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 limberwheels,

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 'T was juicier for the niggers when the case begun to spread.

The moril of this story, it is plainly to be seen:

You 'av n't got no families when servin' of the Queen-
You 'av n'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!

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 leave '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, &c."

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, &c."

There was a row in Silver Street-they sent the Polis there,
The English were too drunk to know, the Irish did n'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, &c."

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; 'T was 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, &c."

There was a row in Silver Street-but that put down the shine,

Wid each man whisperin' to his next:-"'T was 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, &c."

There was a row in Silver Street-it isn't over yet,
For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;
"T is 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 out to the East

'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,

An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e 's fit for to serve as a soldier.

Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.

Fit, fit, fit for a soldier ..

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts-
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts—
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.

Bad, bad, bad for the soldier

When the cholera comes-as it will past a doubt-
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over’ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier