When the depôt soldier’s wantin’ with ’is orficer to speak, ’E must ’alt two paces from ’im, an’ salute before the start. An’ ’e mustn’t try to argue, an’ ’e mustn’t give no cheek; An’ if ’is Captain slangs ’im—’e must take it in good part. But it’s make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements! When you see ’im lying wounded, all the circumstances change. An’ you don’t ’eed no instructions; An’ you don’t need introductions; But you make your own arrangements—an’ you get ’im out of range. When the depôt soldier sickens, when the depôt soldier dies, ’E is buried by ’is comrades in the regulation style. ’E is covered by an ensign of the regulation size, An’ ’e gets a firin’ party made of thirteen rank an’ file. But it’s make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements! When the Colonel reads the service by a guard-room lantern light. When in silent rows you’ve laid ’em In a trench your bay’nets made ’em, O, it’s make your own arrangements when you bury in the night! *GINGER JAMES* A spell I ’ad to wait Outside the barrick gate, For Ginger James was passin’ out as I was passin’ in; ’E was only a recruit, But I give ’im the salute, For I’ll never git another chance of givin’ it agin! ’E’d little brains, I’ll swear, Beneath ’is ginger ’air, ’Is personal attractions, well, they wasn’t very large; ’E was fust in ev’ry mill, An’ a foul-mouthed brute, but still We’ll forgive ’im all ’is drawbacks—’e ’as taken ’is discharge. ’E once got fourteen days, For drunken, idle ways, An’ the Colonel said the nasty things that colonels sometimes say; ’E called him to ’is face The regiment’s disgrace— But the Colonel took ’is ’at off when ’e passed ’im by to-day. For days ’e used to dwell Inside a guard-room cell, Where they put the darbies on ’im for a ’owlin’ savage brute; But as by the guard ’e went They gave ’im the present, The little bugler sounded off the ’General Salute.’ The band turned out to play Poor Ginger James away; ’Is Captain an’ ’is Company came down to see ’im off; An’ thirteen file an’ rank, With three rounds each of blank; An’ ’e rode down on a carriage, like a bloomin’ city toff! ’E doesn’t want no pass, ’E’s journeying first-class; ’Is trav’lling rug’s a Union Jack, which isn’t bad at all; The tune the drummers play It ain’t so very gay, But a rather slow selection, from a piece that’s known as ’Saul.’ *’HER MAJESTY HAS BEEN PLEASED—’*