An’ so yer George’s little girl, an’ cum to nurse me too,
I likes yer face an’ manners an’ I reckon that yer’ll do;
So plaize to pass me drop o’ wet, an’ ‘bacca pouch from theer,
I’m gettin’ owd an’ ‘elpless, child – can ‘ardly leave me cheer.
Does anybody call? Aye, Aye! the parson every day,
An’ doctor comes, and Mrs Jones to fettle an’ make the tay,
Sometimes the chaps from Barracks come an’ cheer me with a call,
An’ bring me ‘bacca an’ the news – I likes them best of all.
The Sarjent’s jus’ bin ‘ere explainin’ of the Liddite shell;
Sez I to ‘im “The Light Brigade could do the work as well.”
Ah? lass, yer wanna born’ed then, wen we faced the Russian guns,
A-vomiting its grapeshot, wen we made their gunners run.
By Gawd! that was a hawful charge – it strikes my spirit yet,
But wheer’s the chap of the Light Brigade who ever cu'd forget?
Tho’ we knowed it was a blunder, as the poets say in songs,
We didna stop to argue, but went in “hammer an’ tongs.”
We drew our glitt’rin’ sabres an’ we rode to certain death.
While thousands stood an’ wondered, an’ with wonder ‘eld their breath,
Our gallant men an’ ‘horses went in ‘undreds tumbling down -
I felt most vexed o’er Jackson, for ‘e owed me half-a-crown.
I sez, sez I to Sarjent, them wus the chaps to whack the Boers,
Aye! them as ne’er surrendered an’ the Kharki never wore;
But stuck to their only colours, an’ never a murmer made,
An’ went to charge them Russians just as tho’ it wur parade.
What chapter shall yer read? We’ll stick to th’ wars, me lass,
Read out a bit from Joshua, for owd Joshua was no ass;
See ‘ow ‘e led them Israelites against the other men,
I reckon ‘e’ll be Gen'ral wen we muster all a’gin.
What’s that yer say – no wars in ‘eav’n ? I’m cert’in sure there’ll be.
I even axed the parson, an’ ‘e sez the same as me;
‘E even went much further, for ‘e gave the war a name,
‘E called it Armageddon, which I reckon’s is the same.
Besides, it stands ter raison, for what ‘ud the soldiers do,
If there’s no Balaclava, or there ain't a Waterloo?
For we’re no ‘and at singin’ an’ I knows we’d jolly soon
Be singin’ Hallelujah or a‘harpin out of tune.
But we ‘ull soon be mustered, for there’s scarcely one alive,
An’ I’ll be goin’ shortly, as I’m over seventy-five.
I’m somehow lookin’ foward now to see the grand array,
For then the chaps of the Brigade ‘all ‘ave a word to say.
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Published in the “Shrewsbury Chronicle”, 26th January 1900.