Atkins to rhyme with "front."

LOOT

If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back,
 If you've ever snigged the washin' from the line,
If you've ever crammed a gander in your bloomin' 'aversack,
 You will understand this little song o' mine.

But the service rules are 'ard, an' from such we are debarred,
 For the same with English morals does not suit.

    (Cornet: Toot! toot!)
W'y, they call a man a robber if 'e stuffs 'is marchin' clobber
 With the—
(Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! lulu! Loo! loo! Loot! loot! loot!
               Ow the loot!
               Bloomin' loot!
            That's the thing to make the boys git up an' shoot!
             It's the same with dogs an' men,
             If you'd make 'em come again
            Clap 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot!
    (ff) Whoopee! Tear 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!

If you've knocked a nigger edgeways when 'e's thrustin' for your life,
 You must leave 'im very careful where 'e fell;
An' may thank your stars an' gaiters if you didn't feel 'is knife
 That you ain't told off to bury 'im as well.

Then the sweatin' Tommies wonder as they spade the beggars under
 Why lootin' should be entered as a crime;
So if my song you'll 'ear, I will learn you plain an' clear
 'Ow to pay yourself for fightin' overtime.

(Chorus) With the loot, . . .

Now remember when you're 'acking round a gilded Burma god
 That 'is eyes is very often precious stones;
An' if you treat a nigger to a dose o' cleanin'-rod
 'E's like to show you everything 'e owns.

When 'e won't prodooce no more, pour some water on the floor
 Where you 'ear it answer 'ollow to the boot
    (Cornet: Toot! toot!)—
When the ground begins to sink, shove your baynick down the chink,
 An' you're sure to touch the—
(Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!
               Ow the loot! . . .

When from 'ouse to 'ouse you're 'unting, you must always work in pairs—
 It 'alves the gain, but safer you will find—
For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs,
 An' a woman comes and clobs 'im from be'ind.

When you've turned 'em inside out, an' it seems beyond a doubt
 As if there weren't enough to dust a flute
    (Cornet: Toot! toot!)—
Before you sling your 'ook, at the 'ousetops take a look,
 For it's underneath the tiles they 'ide the loot.

(Chorus) Ow the loot! . . .

You can mostly square a Sergint an' a Quartermaster too,
 If you only take the proper way to go;
I could never keep my pickin's, but I've learned you all I knew—
 An' don't you never say I told you so.

An' now I'll bid good-bye, for I'm gettin' rather dry,
 An' I see another tunin' up to toot
    (Cornet: Toot! toot!)—
So 'ere's good-luck to those that wears the Widow's clo'es,
 An' the Devil send 'em all they want o' loot!
(Chorus) Yes, the loot,
               Bloomin' loot!
            In the tunic an' the mess-tin an' the boot!
             It's the same with dogs an' men,
             If you'd make 'em come again
   (fff) Whoop 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!
            Heeya! Sick 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!

'SNARLEYOW'

This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps
Which is first among the women an' amazin' first in war;
An' what the bloomin' battle was I don't remember now,
But Two's off-lead 'e answered to the name o' Snarleyow.

    Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;
    Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears;
    But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog
    Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!

They was movin' into action, they was needed very sore,
To learn a little schoolin' to a native army corps,
They 'ad nipped against an uphill, they was tuckin' down the brow,
When a tricky, trundlin' roundshot give the knock to Snarleyow.

They cut 'im loose an' left 'im—'e was almost tore in two—
But he tried to follow after as a well-trained 'orse should do;
'E went an' fouled the limber, an' the Driver's Brother squeals:
"Pull up, pull up for Snarleyow—'is head's between 'is 'eels!"

The Driver 'umped 'is shoulder, for the wheels was goin' round,
An' there ain't no "Stop, conductor!" when a batt'ry's changin' ground;
Sez 'e: "I broke the beggar in, an' very sad I feels,
But I couldn't pull up, not for you—your 'ead between your 'eels!"

'E 'adn't 'ardly spoke the word, before a droppin' shell
A little right the batt'ry an' between the sections fell;
An' when the smoke 'ad cleared away, before the limber wheels,
There lay the Driver's Brother with 'is 'ead between 'is 'eels.

Then sez the Driver's Brother, an' 'is words was very plain,
"For Gawd's own sake get over me, an' put me out o' pain."
They saw 'is wounds was mortial, an' they judged that it was best,
So they took an' drove the limber straight across 'is back an' chest.

The Driver 'e give nothin' 'cept a little coughin' grunt,
But 'e swung 'is 'orses 'andsome when it came to "Action Front!"
An' if one wheel was juicy, you may lay your Monday head
'Twas juicier for the niggers when the case begun to spread.

The moril of this story, it is plainly to be seen:
You 'avn't got no families when servin' of the Queen—
You 'avn't got no brothers, fathers, sisters, wives, or sons—
If you want to win your battles take an' work your bloomin' guns!

    Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;
    Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears;
    But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog
    Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!

THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR

'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor
 With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?
She 'as ships on the foam—she 'as millions at 'ome,
 An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
    (Ow, poor beggars in red!)

There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,
 There's 'er mark on the medical stores—
An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind
 That takes us to various wars.
    (Poor beggars!—barbarious wars!)
       Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
        An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,
       The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
        O' Missis Victorier's sons.
       (Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)

Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
 For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
 An' we've salted it down with our bones.
    (Poor beggars!—it's blue with our bones!)
Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
 Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
 When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!
    (Poor beggars!—we're sent to say "Stop"!)
       Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
        From the Pole to the Tropics it runs—
       To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
        An' open in form with the guns.
       (Poor beggars!—it's always they guns!)

We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
 It's safest to let 'er alone:
For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land
 Wherever the bugles are blown.
    (Poor beggars!—an' don't we get blown!)
Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',
 An' flop round the earth till you're dead;
But you won't get away from the tune that they play
 To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.
    (Poor beggars!—it's 'ot over'ead!)
       Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
        Wherever, 'owever they roam.
       'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require
        A speedy return to their 'ome.
       (Poor beggars!—they'll never see 'ome!)

BELTS

There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,
Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree;
It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark:
The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park.

    For it was:—"Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!"
    An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!"
    O buckle an' tongue
    Was the song that we sung
    From Harrison's down to the Park!

There was a row in Silver Street—the regiments was out,
They called us "Delhi Rebels", an' we answered "Threes about!"
That drew them like a hornet's nest—we met them good an' large,
The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge.

Then it was:—"Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street—an' I was in it too;
We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru!
I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm
A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.

O it was:—"Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street—they sent the Polis there,
The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care;
But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,
Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es.

For it was:—"Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street—it might ha' raged till now,
But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how;
'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run:
An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun.

While it was:—"Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street—but that put down the shine,
Wid each man whisperin' to his next: "'Twas never work o' mine!"
We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him,
The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him.

When it was:—"Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street—it isn't over yet,
For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;
'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:
There was a row in Silver Street—begod, I wonder why!

    But it was:—"Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!"
    An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!"
    O buckle an' tongue
    Was the song that we sung
    From Harrison's down to the Park!

THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER

When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
   Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.

      Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
      Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
      Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
         So-oldier of the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted today,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
   A soldier what's fit for a soldier.

Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts—
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts—
   An' it's bad for the young British soldier.

Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes—as it will past a doubt—
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
   An' it crumples the young British soldier.

Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
   An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.

Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
   That it's beer for the young British soldier.

Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old—
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
   Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.

'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em—you'll swing, on my oath!—
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
   An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.

Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . .