The number one,‘ e's on the bridge,
There's goin’ to be a row,
The Gold Coast is upon our port,
An’,‘ ull down, on our bow;
Makin’ for‘ ome for all she's worth —
A slaver's bloomin’ dhow!
The number one is on the bridge,
The buntin’ tosser's aft;
An’ down below, in the‘ eat an’ glow,
The men are at their graft.
They've peeled their shirts, to get the steam,
To over -‘ aul that craft.
The number one is in command,
The skipper's sick below,
A touch o’ fever from the coast,
‘ As made the old man so;
But‘ e's passed the word to the engineer,
‘ For Gawd's sake make‘ er go!’
The‘ gen'ral quarters’ sounded orf,
The bugler's made a call
( A call that means the‘ red’ marines,
With fifty rounds of ball,
Are goin’ to git a medal an’ clasp,
Or an ensign for a pall! )
The number one is on the bridge,
The sun is low an’ red!
An’ shot an’ shell, like fiends of‘ ell,
Are shriekin’ round‘ is‘ ead,
An’ three marines are crippled,
An’ their sergeant-major's dead!
The number one is on the bridge,
The dhow's a battered sight;
‘ Er rascal chief‘ as come to grief;
‘ E's fought‘ is final fight,
But the number one lies on the bridge,
An’‘ is face is ghastly white.
A smile is on‘ is bloodless lips,
‘ Is sword‘ angs from‘ is wrist,
And a lock of‘ air of a maiden fair.
Is clasped in‘ is bloodstained fist,
But‘ e'll meet‘ er at the great roll-call,
When they muster by‘ open list’!