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 today, 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... If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind, Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind; Be handy and civil, and then you will find That it's beer for the young British soldier. Beer, beer, beer for the soldier... Now, if you must marry, take care she is old-- A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told, For beauty won't help if your rations is cold, Nor love ain't enough for a soldier. 'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier... If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath To shoot when you catch 'em--you'll swing, on my oath!-- Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both, An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier. Curse, curse, curse of a soldier... When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck, Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck And march to your front like a soldier. Front, front, front like a soldier... When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch, Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch; She's human as you are--you treat her as sich, An' she'll fight for the young British soldier. Fight, fight, fight for the soldier...