With duchesses I'm 'and in glove, with countesses I'm thick;
From all the nobs I get invites—they say I am "so chic!"
[Pronounce "chick."
It often makes me laugh to read, whene'er I go off guard,
"Dear Bertie, come to my At Home!" on a coronetted card!
Chorus.
For we're "Berties," "'Ughies," "Archies,"
In the Guards! Doncher know?
With our silky long moustarches,
In the Guards! Doncher know?
Where's a regiment that marches
Like the Guards? Doncher know?
All the darlings—bless 'em!—dote upon the Guards,
Bing-Bang!
Third Verse.
[Here comes the Singer's great chance, and by merely taking a little pains, he may make a tremendously effective thing out of it. If he can manage to slip away between the verses, and change his bearskin and scarlet coat for a solar topee and kharkee tunic at the wings, it will produce an enormous amount of enthusiasm, only he must not take more than five minutes over this alteration, or the audience—so curiously are British audiences constituted—may grow impatient for his return.
But hark! the trumpet sounds!... (Here a member of the orchestra will oblige upon the trumpet.) What's this? ... (The Singer will take a folded paper from his breast and peruse it with attention.) We're ordered to the front! [This should be shouted.
We'll show the foe how "Carpet-Knights" can face the battle's brunt!
They laugh at us as "Brummels"—but we'll prove ourselves "Bay-yards!"
[Now the Martial Star will draw his sword and unfasten his revolver-case, taking up the exact pose in which he is represented upon the posters outside.
As you were!... Form Square!... Mark Time!... Slope Arms!... now—'Tention!... (These military evolutions should all be gone through by the Artist.) Forward, Guards! [To be yelled through music.
Chorus.