TOMMY.

I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer, 

The publican 'eup an' sez, "We serve no-red coats here".

The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,

I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy,go away";

But it's "Thank you Mr Atkins," when the band begins to play

The band begins to play my boys, the band begins to play,

O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.

 

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,

They gave a drunken civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;

They sent me to the gallery or round the music-all's,

But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";

But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the troopers on the tide

The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopships on the tide,

O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

 

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep.

Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap.

An' hustling' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit

Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy 'ow's yer soul?"

But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll

The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,

O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes," when the drum begins to roll.

 

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,

But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;

An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,

Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

While it's Tommy this,an' Tommy that an' "Tommy, fall be'ind,

"But it's "Please to walk in front, sir" when there's trouble in the wind

There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,

O it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when ther'e trouble in the wind.

 

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:

We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.

Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face

The Widows's uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"

But it's "Savior of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;

An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;

An' Tommy ain't a bloomin fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

Rudyard Kipling.