Take your rifle from the rack: Take your bay'nit from the shelf; Clean your straps for marchin’ order, An’ git ready for the Border.
For it ai n't no sham attack, So you need n't kid yourself. It's a ball an’ bay'nit action With the perfect satisfaction
Of a medal, an’ a ribbon, and perhaps a clasp or two. For a-doin’ of the little job your betters could n't do. Pack your socks, an’ fold your shirt, Wash your water-bottle out,
It'll make your marchin’ easy If your boots are nice an’ greasy,— An’ some dubbin would n't‘ urt. You can chuck your weight about;
There's an‘ appy day before you, When the civvies will adore you, And the things wot used to shock‘ em will be favoured with a smile. And your little faults an’ failin's wo n't be noticed for a while.
Git a guernsey out of store — Winter's very cold above, An’ the wind an’ rain will find you If you leave your clothes behind you!
Trust your pretty self before Any Quartermaster's love; For there's no store to go unto An’ no tailors’ shops to run to;
For it ai n't no ten days’ skirmish these manoeuvres wot you're in, An’ a little flannel weskit‘ ides a multitood of skin! Write your letters for the mail; Tell your people all the news —
For your folks'll prize the writin’ Of‘ my son who's out a-fightin’.' Do n't you spin an awful tale, Just to give your mother blues,
For the day the boys are cryin’ ‘ List o’ wounded, dead and dyin’!' Will be tons of time for them at‘ ome to feel a trifle blue, When they see a dozen Smiths are killed — and wonder which is you!
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