Dreamin’ of thee! Dreamin’ of thee! Sittin’ with my elbow on my knee. I _orter_ be a polishin’ the meat-dish an’ the can— (I _orter_ draw the groceries—for I am ord’ly man! But wot are bloomin’ ration calls, an’ wot’s a pot or pan, When I’m dreaming O my darlin’ one, of thee?) Dreamin’ of thee! Dreamin’ of thee! Firin’ at the rifle range I be. I’ve missed a fust-class targit—an’ I’ve missed the ’ill be’ind! I nearly shot a marker once! (which wasn’t very kind); The orficer ’e swears at me—but re’ly, I don’t mind! I am dreamin’, O my darlin’ one, of thee! Dreamin’ of thee! Dreamin’ of thee! Me, as was the smartest man in ’B’! My kit is all untidy, and it’s inches thick in dust; An’ my rifle’s fouled an’ filthy, an’ my bay’nit’s red with rust; They’ve tried to find the reason—but I’ve seen ’em furder fust! An’ they never guess I’m dreamin’, dear, of thee! Dreamin’ of thee! Dreamin’ of thee! They can’t make out wot’s comin’ over me. The fellows think I’m barmy, an’ the Major thinks it’s drink, The Sergeant thought it laziness, so shoved me in the clink! The Colonel called it ’thoughtlessness,’ so gave me time to think, An’ to dream again, my darlin’ one, of thee! Dreamin’ of thee! Dreamin’ of thee! Wot’s two ’ours’ sentry-go to me? A sittin’ in the sentry-box, a-thinkin’ of your eyes, The ord’ly orficer come along, an’ took me by surprise! ’E said as I was sleepin’—an’ the usual orfice lies! When I was on’y dreamin’, love, of thee! Dreamin’ of thee! Dreamin’ of thee! Rubbin’ tarry oakum on my knee! Oh, when I weigh that oakum in, I know I’ll cop it ’ot! I’ll be ’auled before the Gov’nor, an’ I’ll git an ’our’s shot; But whether I git punishment, or whether I do not, They can’t prevent me dreamin’, love, of thee! *TOMMY ADVISES* Take your rifle from the rack: Take your bay’nit from the shelf; Clean your straps for marchin’ order, An’ git ready for the Border. For it ain’t no sham attack, So you needn’t kid yourself. It’s a ball an’ bay’nit action With the perfect satisfaction Of a medal, an’ a ribbon, and perhaps a clasp or two. For a-doin’ of the little job your betters couldn’t do. Pack your socks, an’ fold your shirt, Wash your water-bottle out, It’ll make your marchin’ easy If your boots are nice an’ greasy,— An’ some dubbin wouldn’t ’urt. You can chuck your weight about; There’s an ’appy day before you, When the civvies will adore you, And the things wot used to shock ’em will be favoured with a smile. And your little faults an’ failin’s won’t be noticed for a while.