Through rivers, brooks, and fountains, up hills and lofty mountains, Our Generals were mounted in armour bright array, Light infantry advancing with glittering bayonets glancing, Upon the heights of Alma we showed them British play, The cannons roared like thunder we cut their ranks asunder, Though not an equal number unto our mighty foes, We drove them from their quarters and made a dreadful slaughter, This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose. The cannons loud did rattle all in the field of battle, To see the dead and wounded would grieve your heart full sore, Through fields of blood we waded the enemy invaded, As we beheld our comrades weltering in their gore, With one determination and one loud exclamation, We went with desperation against our mighty foes, We cut them in succession of their guns we took possession, This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose. Lord Raglan that commander was brave as Alexander, Describes this dreadful battle the first upon record, The legions of France by the side of old England, The power of the Russians could not them retard, With fire and smoke around us nothing could confound us, We gained the heights of Alma regardless of our foes, Though hundreds fell upon the field we made the enemy to yield, This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose. The brave thirty-third and twenty-third regiments, Also the ninty-fifth and the seventh fusiliers, Under Sir Colin Campbell the gallant highlanders, Died on the field of battle with the brave grenadiers, Like lions they marched in the face of the cannon, While hundreds lay bleeding as you may suppose, They conquered and died on the hill of the Alma, This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose. LITTLE LORD JOHN OUT OF SERVICE. You lads of this nation, in every station, I pray give attention, and listen to me, I’m little Jack Russell, a man of great bustle, Who served Queen Victoria by land and by sea; They call me a Proosian, an Austrian, a Roosian, And off to Vienna they sent me afar; They’d not me believe then, they vowed I’d deceived them, And called me Friend of the great Russian Czar. _Chorus._ I’m little Jack Russell, a man of great bustle, I’m full of vexation, grief, sorrow, and care, I have got in disgrace, and am now out of place; But I never broke windows round Bel-ge-rave Square. In great London City for me they’ve no pity; And Moon the Lord Mayor to my face told me plain, All the freemen would scout me, and old women rout me, If ever I went to the City again. I’m the son of old Bedford, I’m going to Deptford To look for employment, and find out a friend, And then I’ll come back with a pack on my back, Bawling frying-pans, saucepans, and kettles to mend. _Chorus_, I’m, &c.