And we’re anythink but snug;
We “stand to” ’arf the bloomin’ night,
But the whole of that is naught,
If they’d give us all we wanted
Of the steak wot comes to port.
W’en it rains they give us lime juice,
W’en it’s ’ot they give us rum;
The baccy don’t arrive because
The mule train didn’t come.
The mail is ’arf a day be’ind,