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 theatre as sober as could be, They gave 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, the troopship's on the tide, O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken soldiers 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, the drums begin to roll, O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll. 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, there's trouble in the wind, O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind. 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 is not the soldier-man'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!

Views: 30

Comment by Ron Powell on November 12, 2018 at 10:45pm

Hope this helps the reading enjoyment:

Comment by koshersalaami on November 13, 2018 at 6:25am

Not history I knew about

Comment by Robert B. James on November 13, 2018 at 8:00am

...oh, them up on tee time, 

    Saw the market climb,

    Not a drop of blood from them,

    As they wind up to swing,

    And there is only us looking through the rough, 

     Prone,

     Weaponless, 

     Buried on a bluff,

     Rattled by the strike of iron,

     Tee time,

      Enough?

      

      

      

Comment by Dicky Neely on November 13, 2018 at 8:18am

Thanks Ron. I copied the text from an earlier post on one of my blogs and for some reason that has not been working out well. I don't understand some of the, to me, weird things my computer does and also my Blogspot templates do!

Comment by Ron Powell on November 13, 2018 at 10:00am

The photo and the art are separate images.

It's difficult to cut and paste text that has been formatted in any way and get it to reproduce as it appears in original form...

Comment by Tom Cordle on November 13, 2018 at 12:28pm

Meanwhile, here in Exceptional USA ... Vets don't get the care they need, they are being foreclosed on or thrown from their apartments, payments are not being made to the schools they're attending, and on and on and on. No expense is spared for recruitment, but once they've used you and used you up ... pennies get pinched and lives get lost in the shuffle of swamp things in and out of the DC door.

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