I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade,
That place for children's toys,
Where you can purchase a dolly or spade
For your good little girls and boys.
And as I passed a certain stall, said a wee little voice to me:
O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee;
O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee.
Then I looked and a little tin soldier I saw,
In his little cocked hat so fine.
He'd a little tin sword that shone in the light
As he led a glittering line of tin hussars,
Whose sabers flashed in a manner à la military.
And that little tin soldier he rode at their head,
So proud on his tin Gee Gee.
Then that little tin soldier he sobbed and he sighed,
So I patted his little tin head.
What vexes your little tin soul? said I,
And this is what he said:
I've been on this stall a very long time,
And I'm marked twenty-nine, as you see;
Whilst just on the shelf above my head,
There's a fellow marked sixty-three.
Now he hasn't got a sword and he hasn't got a horse,
And I'm quite as good as he.
So why mark me at twenty-nine,
And him at sixty-three?
There's a pretty little dolly girl over there,
And I'm madly in love with she.
But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine,
She turns up her nose at me,
She turns up her little wax nose at me,
And carries on with sixty-three.
And, oh, she's dressed in a beautiful dress;
It's a dress I do admire,
She has pearly blue eyes that open and shut
When worked inside by a wire,
And once on a time when the folks had gone,
She used to ogle at me.
But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine,
She turns up her nose at me.
She turns up her little snub nose at me,
And carries on with sixty-three.
Cheer up, my little tin man, said I,
I'll see what I can do.
You're a fine little fellow, and it's a shame
That she should so treat you.
So I took down the label from the shelf above,
And I labeled him sixty-three,
And I marked the other one twenty-nine,
Which was _very, very_ wrong of me,
But I felt so sorry for that little tin soul,
As he rode on his tin Gee Gee.
Now that little tin soldier he puffed with pride,
At being marked sixty-three,
And that saucy little dolly girl smiled once more,
For he'd risen in life, do you see?
And it's so in this world; for I'm in love
With a maiden of high degree;
But I am only marked twenty-nine,
And the other chap's sixty-three--
And a girl never looks at twenty-nine
With a possible sixty-three!
_Fred Cape._
"Tommy"
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again, an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.
I went into a theater as sober as could be,
They give a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins," when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, etc.
O makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken sodgers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, etc.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints.
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy fall be'ind";
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, etc.
You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face,
The Widow's uniform[1] is not the soldierman's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool--you bet that Tommy sees!
_Rudyard Kipling._
[Footnote 1: "Widow's uniform"--i. e., uniform of a soldier of Queen
Victoria, who was often affectionately called "the Widow of Windsor."]