What of the men?
The men were bred in England;
The bow-men—the yeomen,
The lads of dale and fell.
Here’s to you—and to you!
To the hearts that are true
And the land where the true hearts dwell!
Arthur Conan Doyle.
CX
A BALLAD OF THE RANKS
Who carries the gun?
A lad from over the Tweed.
Then let him go, for well we know
He comes of a soldier breed.
So drink together to rock and heather,
Out where the red deer run,
And stand aside for Scotland’s pride—
The man who carries the gun!
For the Colonel rides before,
The Major’s on the flank,
The Captains and the Adjutant
Are in the foremost rank.
But when it’s ‘Action front!’
And there’s fighting to be done,
Come one, come all, you stand or fall
By the man who carries the gun.
Who carries the gun?
A lad from a Yorkshire dale.
Then let him go, for well we know
The heart that never will fail.
Here’s to the fire of Lancashire,
And here’s to her soldier son!
For the hard-bit North has sent him forth—
The lad who carries the gun.
Who carries the gun?
A lad from a Midland shire.
Then let him go, for well we know
He comes of an English sire.
Here’s a glass to a Midland lass
And each can choose the one,
But East and West we claim the best
For the man who carries the gun.
Who carries the gun?
A lad from the hills of Wales.
Then let him go, for well we know
That Taffy is hard as nails.
There are several ll’s in the place where he dwells,
And of w’s more than one,
With a ‘Llan’ and a ‘pen,’ but it breeds good men
And it’s they who carry the gun.
Who carries the gun?
A lad from the windy West.
Then let him go, for well we know
That he is one of the best.
There’s Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough,
And Devon yields to none.
Or you may get in Somerset
Your lad to carry the gun.