Be you ever so stale and slack,
If you pad it with rifle and marching kit
To Rotherfield Hill and back!
Drills in hall, and drills outdoors,
And drills of every type,
Till we wore our boots with forming fours,
And our coats with “Shoulder hipe!”
No glory ours, no swank, no pay,
One dull eventless grind;
Find yourself, and nothing a day