THE DINK Y-DI SOLDIER.
[The Sole Property of Ernest Lauri.]
The sargint ses "Laddie, you don
For th' life of a soldier is freedom
(Tho' there's plenty to get there is
little to do,
An' there's mountains o' tucker an'
oceans o' stoo,
Warm blankets at night, an enj-yable
A nobleman's life, an' a gentleman's
Be a sport, an' a dinky-di soldier!"
A c'obber ses "Dicken ! You're gone in
the block !
If you go to the front you'll be takin'
You fight f'r yer country, yer King,
an' yer flag !
W'y, you can't fight yer way thro' a
I'd like t' see you try to 'andle a gun, 'Struth! You can't 'it a 'aystack, an'
much less a 'Un!
You're a squib, not a dinky-di sol-
"On the 'edge!" ses me tabby, "it's no
good t' me!
You'd get shook on some Frenchie, a
tart of Paree.
Ain't there pitchers, an' darnces, an'
parks of a night?
Are y' full up o' me that you're burs-
tin' to fight?"
But I tells 'er to nark it, I knows its
An' I lines up nex' day with some
more o' the mob.
An' they makes me a dinky-di sol-
So now I'm route-marchin', an' ump-
in' me pack
Till th' weight o' me kit gives me
corns on the back,
An' I feels like a camel,—I've got all
An' me feet is so swelled that me
boots nearly burst;
Me lamp's full o' gravel, I'm crook at
An' I'm smothered in goods like
damn C'ris'mas tree,—
In fact, I'm a dinky-di soldier.
No work! You're at yakker as soon a
You mus' graft all the day an' do
guard all th' night;
If you ain't peelin' spuds, there's ye
rifle t' clean,
Woodchoppin' and trenchin', an' drill
in- between !
Tho' you're booked f'r line picket an'
Still you mustn't go crook, an' you
It's the luck of a dinky-di soldier !
But th' chaplain 'e mags w'en we're
on church parade,
'Ow the bloke 'oo won't fight is
An' 'e mentions th' pathway o' dooty
An' ses justice an' honor is things to
An' 'e kids us we're men. 'oo's been
put to the test—
Until, dinkum, 'e makes a bloke chuck
out 'is chest
An' be glad 'e's a dinky-di-soldier !