His march is a go-as-you-please; He most keeps step with hisself! For his boots ain’t conducive to ease, Bein’ mostly kept packed on a shelf! Tho’ he isn’t so span or so spic— Tho’ his marchin’ ain’t what you’d call grand— He gets to the front just as quick Does the elegant Lower Deck Hand! (_The Lower Deck Hand_ _Wasn’t reared in the Strand;_ _But he’s good to command,_ _Is the Lower Deck Hand._) You may swear by the jolly marines, ’Per marey, per tarey’ they fight— Not speakin’ for them in their ’teens— I don’t mind admittin’ your right. But all that the Joey has got, As I’d have all the world understand, He’s learnt—well, he’s learnt quite a lot From his tooter—the Lower Deck Hand! (_The Lower Deck Hand_ _Is a mine that’s unpanned;_ _An’ he’s yours to command,_ _Is the Lower Deck Hand._) He doesn’t shape well at Reviews, I’ve known him to spit in the ranks; But we’ve never been asked to excuse A fault, when he’s guarding the flanks. An’ when there’s a break in the square Or a place where the Line cannot stand, I’ll tell you the chap to put there— ’Jack Mullow’—the Lower Deck Hand. (_The Lower Deck Hand_ _Will die as he ’ll stand;_ _He’s tempered an land,_ _Is the Lower Deck Hand._) When you’re hemmed in a tight little hole, By a greatly outnumbering foe, It’s a matter of stokin’ an’ coal How far we’re away from the foe. When the Infantry’s needin’ some aid, When the ’tillery gets under-man’d,— Make way for the Naval Brigade!— His Highness the Lower Deck Hand! (_The Lower Deck Hand_ _With his guns he can land,_ _An he’ll kick up some sand,_ _Will the Lower Deck Hand._) *THE ARMOURED TRAIN* There’s risk on the ballasted roadway, There’s death on the girdered bridge, Red ruin from sleeper to sleeper, And wreck on the bouldered ridge. No signal to herald my coming, No whistle to waken the plain; Stand clear—I am out for patrolling! Make way for the Armoured Train! I run not to time, nor to table, I’m neither an ’Up’ nor a ’Down,’ But ’Full speed ahead’ is my order, When skirting the enemy’s town. My mails have a backing of cordite, My luggage is powder and shell, With smoke-stack a-blazing I thunder, A traveller’s sample of Hell! They have laid me a mine by a culvert, They have loosened a bolt by a curve, But thrice-tested steel is my muscle, And thrice-tested brass is my nerve. A curse for their bungling folly, A laugh for the death-trap that fails, A hang for the enemy’s miner, So long as I keep to the rails.