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"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

I'll up an' tend to my true love!

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"'E's lying on the dead with a bullet through' is 'ead,

An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

I'll lie down an' die with my true love!"

“The pit we dug 'll 'ide 'im an' twenty men beside 'im

An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

་་

Do you bring no sign from my true love ?."

"I bring a lock of 'air that e' allus used to wear, An' you'd best go look for a new love."

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O then I know it's true I 've lost my true love !" "An' I tell you truth again

feel o' pain

when you've lost the

You'd best take me for your true love."

True love! New love!

Best take 'im for a new love.

The dead they can not rise, an' you'd better dry

your eyes,

An' you'd best take 'im for your true love.

THE SONS OF THE WIDOW

'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor
With a airy gold crown on 'er 'ead?

She 'as ships on the foam she 'as millions at 'ome,

An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
(Ow, poor beggars in red!)

There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,

There's 'er mark on the medical stores

-

An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind
That takes us to various wars.

(Poor beggars ! - barbarious wars !)

Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,

The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
O' Missis Victorier's sons.

(Poor beggars !- Victorier's sons!)

Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
For 'alf o' creation she owns ;

We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the

flame,

An' we 've salted it down with our bones.

(Poor beggars!--it's blue with our bones!)

Hands off o' the sons of the Widow,
Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,

For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown

When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop!"

(Poor beggars! -we're sent to say "Stop!")

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Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
From the Pole to the Tropics it runs

To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
An' open in forms with the guns.

(Poor beggars!—it's always them guns!)

We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor
It's safest to let 'er alone:

For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land
Wherever the bugles are blown.

(Poor beggars!-an' don't we get blown !)

Take 'old o' the wings o' the mornin',

An' flop round the earth till you're dead; But you won't get away from the tune that they play To the bloomin' old rag over❜ead.

(Poor beggars!-it's 'ot over'ead!)

Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
Wherever, 'owever they roam.

Ere's all they desire, an' if they require
A speedy return to their 'ome.

(Poor beggars!—they'll never see 'ome!)

TROOPIN'

Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea:

'Ere's September come again the six-year men are

free.

O leave the dead be'ind us, for they can not come

away

To where the ship 's a-coalin' up that takes us 'ome

to-day.

We're goin' 'ome, we 're goin' 'ome,
Our ship is at the shore,

An' you must pack your 'aversack,

For we won't come back no more.

Ho, don't you grieve for me,

My lovely Mary-Anne,

For I'll marry you yit on a four-p'ny bit
As a time-expired man.

The Malabar's in 'arbor with the Jumner at 'er tail,
An' the time-expired 's waitin' of 'is orders for to sail.
O the weary waitin' when on Khyber 'ills we lay,
But the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders 'ome to-day.

They 'll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an' wet an' rain,

All wearin' Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain ;

Song of the British Army in the East.

They'll kill us of pneumonia — for that's their little way

But damn the chills and fever, men, we 're goin' 'ome to-day!

Troopin', troopin',- winter 's round again!

See the new draf's pourin' in for the old campaign; Ho, you poor recruities, but you've got to earn your

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'Ere's to English women an' a quart of English beer; The Colonel an' the regiment an' all who 've got to

stay,

Gawd's mercy strike 'em gentle - Whoop! we're goin' 'ome to-day.

We're goin' 'ome, we 're goin' 'ome,

Our ship is at the shore,

An' you must pack your 'aversack,

For we won't come back no more.

Ho, don't you grieve for me,

My lovely Mary-Anne,

For I'll marry you yit on a four-p'ny bit

As a time-expired man.

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