My reply was drowned in yells and outcries from the next fire, where ten men were shouting for "Orth'ris!" "Privit Orth'ris!" "Mistah Or-ther-is!" "Deah Boy!" "Cap'n Orth'ris!" "Field-Marshal Orth'ris!" "Stanley, you penn'orth o' pop, come 'ere to your own comp'ny!" And the Cockney, who had been delighting another audience with recondite and Rabelaisian yarns, was shot down among his admirers by the major force.
"You've crumpled my dress-shirt 'orrid," said he; "an' I shan't sing no more to this 'ere bloomin' drawin'-room."
Learoyd, roused by the confusion, uncoiled himself, crept behind Ortheris, and raised him aloft on his shoulders.
"Sing, ye bloomin' hummin'-bird!" said he; and Ortheris, beating time on Learoyd's skull, delivered himself, in the raucous voice of the Ratcliffe Highway, of the following chaste and touching ditty:
"My girl she give me the go oncet,
When I was a London lad,
An' I went on the drunk for a fortnight,
An' then I went to the bad.
The queen she gave me a shilling
To fight for 'er over the seas;
But guv'ment built me a fever trap,
An' Injia gave me disease.
Chorus—"Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says.
An' don't you go for the beer;
But I was an ass when I was at grass,
An' that is why I'm 'ere.
"I fired a shot at an Afghan;
The beggar 'e fired again;
An' I lay on my bed with a 'ole in my 'ead,
An' missed the next campaign!
I up with my gun at a Burman
Who carried a bloomin' dah,
But the cartridge stuck an' the bay'nit bruk
An' all I got was the scar.
Chorus—"Ho! don't you aim at a Afghan
When you stand on the sky-line clear;
An' don't you go for a Burman
If none o' your friends is near.
"I served my time for a corp'ral.
An' wetted my stripes with pop,
For I went on the bend with a intimate friend,
An' finished the night in the shop.
I served my time for a sergeant;
The colonel 'e sez No!
The most you'll be is a full C.B.'[*]
An'—very next night 'twas so.
[*] Confined to barracks.