Git a guernsey out of store— Winter’s very cold above, An’ the wind an’ rain will find you If you leave your clothes behind you! Trust your pretty self before Any Quartermaster’s love; For there’s no store to go unto An’ no tailors’ shops to run to; For it ain’t no ten days’ skirmish these manoeuvres wot you’re in, An’ a little flannel weskit ’ides a multitood of skin! Write your letters for the mail; Tell your people all the news— For your folks’ll prize the writin’ Of ’my son who’s out a-fightin’.’ Don’t you spin an awful tale, Just to give your mother blues, For the day the boys are cryin’ ’List o’ wounded, dead and dyin’!’ Will be tons of time for them at ’ome to feel a trifle blue, When they see a dozen Smiths are killed—and wonder which is you! *THE NUMBER ONE* The number one, ’e’s on the bridge, There’s goin’ to be a row, The Gold Coast is upon our port, An’, ’ull down, on our bow; Makin’ for ’ome for all she’s worth— A slaver’s bloomin’ dhow! The number one is on the bridge, The buntin’ tosser’s aft; An’ down below, in the ’eat an’ glow, The men are at their graft. They’ve peeled their shirts, to get the steam, To over-’aul that craft. The number one is in command, The skipper’s sick below, A touch o’ fever from the coast, ’As made the old man so; But ’e’s passed the word to the engineer, ’For Gawd’s sake make ’er go!’ The ’gen’ral quarters’ sounded orf, The bugler’s made a call (A call that means the ’red’ marines, With fifty rounds of ball, Are goin’ to git a medal an’ clasp, Or an ensign for a pall!) The number one is on the bridge, The sun is low an’ red! An’ shot an’ shell, like fiends of ’ell, Are shriekin’ round ’is ’ead, An’ three marines are crippled, An’ their sergeant-major’s dead! The number one is on the bridge, The dhow’s a battered sight; ’Er rascal chief ’as come to grief; ’E’s fought ’is final fight, But the number one lies on the bridge, An’ ’is face is ghastly white. A smile is on ’is bloodless lips, ’Is sword ’angs from ’is wrist, And a lock of ’air of a maiden fair. Is clasped in ’is bloodstained fist, But ’e’ll meet ’er at the great roll-call, When they muster by ’open list’! *BRITANNIA TO HER FIRST-BORN* I am no maiden, highly strung, To faint, when bloody death is nigh. I have not lived, by might of tongue Nor by vain boastings, wind-wide flung! But on fame’s endless ladder, I Have fought my way, from rung to rung!