You can eas'ly understand That the green of medder-land Does n't strike the bloke that‘ as to push the roller; An’ Nature at the best,
When you put‘ er to the test, Undiluted, is a very poor consoler. An’ the blue of summer skies ‘ As no beauties for the eyes
Of defaulters on parade in marchin’ order; An’ the rainiest of morns Brings no feelin's —‘ cept to corns, Of a feller pickin’ oakum with a warder.
Wot's the beauty of the spot, When you're bein’ drilled with shot? Wot is Nature when you're checked for bein’ dirty? An’ eternity's a blank
To a feller on the crank, When ev'ry blessed minute seems like thirty! Bein’ punished for your deeds, On fatig’ a-pickin’ weeds,
Can a bloke admire the beauties of the clover? Does the sunset on the‘ ills Give defaulters any thrills Except to know the day is nearly over.
Bein’ frog-marched to the clink, Does a feller stop to think On the grass before‘ is eyes so swif'ly runnin’, ‘ Ow that ev'ry single blade
Is most wonderfully made Wiv a skill beyond all artificial cunnin’? An’ you cannot pant for wars When you're scrubbin’ barrack floors,
Or get inspired on bully-beef an’ biscuit: It requires a poet's soul When a feller's cartin’ coal To think‘ isself in danger, an’ to risk it.
Does a feller care a D — For the friskin’ of a lamb, When‘ e‘ as to watch the friskin’ thro’ a gratin’? Does the lowin’ of the‘ erds,
Or the twitterin’ of the birds, Soothe a feller when for punishment‘ e's waitin’?
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