Of a fine old British Subaltern, whose pay was his estate,
And who grumbled at the service at a beautiful rate,
Because for his promotion he was made so long to wait,
This fine old British Subaltern, born in the olden time.
His room, so small, was hung around with many a map and plan,
Of sieges, storms, and battles, he had fought both boy and man,
And every regulation sword worn since the world began,
And dresses of the nations of Bengal and Astracan.
This fine old, &c.
His room was open to a few each night when mess was o’er.