An' when we return an' from war we would cease,
They grudge us adornin' the billets of peace,
Which are kept for, etc.
We build 'em nice barricks—they swear they are bad,
That our Colonels are Methodist, married or mad,
Insultin', etc.
They haven't no manners nor gratitude too,
For the more that we help 'em the less will they do,
But mock at, etc.
Now the Line's but a man with a gun in his hand,
An' Cavalry's only what horses can stand,
When helped by, etc.
Artillery moves by the leave o' the ground,
But we are the men that do something all round,
For we are, etc.
I have stated it plain, an' my argument's thus,
("It's all one," says the Sapper),
There's only one Corps which is perfect—that's us;
An' they call us Her Majesty's Engineers,
Her Majesty's Royal Engineers,
With the rank and pay of a Sapper!
THAT DAY.
It got beyond all orders an' it got beyond all 'ope;
It got to shammin' wounded an' retirin' from the 'alt.
'Ole companies was lookin' for the nearest road to slope;
It were just a bloomin' knock-out—an' our fault!