Writ in Barracks

Wot is 'e, after all?
'O, 'e's a swaddle, the same as you, an' 'e goes to the
"orficers' call"!'
'E's a gentleman, Tommy, when all's said an' done!
'Is ma is the lady 'oo 's second to none,
An' we love 'er the better because of 'er son —
That's Arthur!

LEGACIES

The dog is yours; and so's the photo frames,
Them pictures wot I cut, an' my new box.
The pack of cards, the dominoes, an' games,
The knittin' needles, an' the knitted socks,
An' all, except the letters and the ring —
You'll find them all together tied with string.

My public clothin' – that goes back to stores —
My kit'll sell by auction on the square;
An' other fellers will be 'formin' fours'
An' 'markin' time' in boots I used to wear.
They're welcome; but you won't forget to send
The ring an' all the letters to my – friend?

The pain ain't near so bad as wot it were
The day they dragged me from the limber wheels;
Ain't I a wreck! for God's sake don't tell 'er;
Say it was fever – peaceful – in the 'ills;
An' write about the wreaths, the 'Jack,' and band,
An' – send a bit of hair: you understand?

The ring – Oh no, the doctor lets me talk,
I ain't a-tirin' – 'cept a funny light,
An' just a feelin' that I'd like to walk
To where it seems to flicker in the night.
Better for me to go with aching 'ead,
Than go in trouble with my say unsaid.

The ring – it ain't long since she sent it back;
I never meant no 'arm, God only knows,
But things – I can't tell now – looked very black,
And she believed the others – I suppose,
I'm sorry for 'er now – that cursed wheel! —
You see she is a woman, an' she'll feel.

* * * * *

The dog is yours, I told you that before.
The spurs you'll find 'em in my private kit.
The letters, an' the ring, an' nothin' more, —
An' hair – it's foolish – but a little bit.

* * * * *

'Our Father' – Lord, how strange! It's all – ri' – sir.
The – lett – an – th' – ring – an' – hair – for – 'er!

T. A. IN LOVE

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!
Sittin' with my elbow on my knee.
I orter be a polishin' the meat-dish an' the can —
(I orter draw the groceries – for I am ord'ly man!
But wot are bloomin' ration calls, an' wot's a pot or pan,
When I'm dreaming O my darlin' one, of thee?)
Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!

Firin' at the rifle range I be.
I've missed a fust-class targit – an' I've missed the 'ill be'ind!
I nearly shot a marker once! (which wasn't very kind);
The orficer 'e swears at me – but re'ly, I don't mind!
I am dreamin', O my darlin' one, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!
Me, as was the smartest man in 'B'!
My kit is all untidy, and it's inches thick in dust;
An' my rifle's fouled an' filthy, an' my bay'nit's red with rust;
They've tried to find the reason – but I've seen 'em furder fust!
An' they never guess I'm dreamin', dear, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!
They can't make out wot's comin' over me.
The fellows think I'm barmy, an' the Major thinks it's drink,
The Sergeant thought it laziness, so shoved me in the clink!
The Colonel called it 'thoughtlessness,' so gave me time to think,
An' to dream again, my darlin' one, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!
Wot's two 'ours' sentry-go to me?
A sittin' in the sentry-box, a-thinkin' of your eyes,
The ord'ly orficer come along, an' took me by surprise!
'E said as I was sleepin' – an' the usual orfice lies!
When I was on'y dreamin', love, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!
Rubbin' tarry oakum on my knee!
Oh, when I weigh that oakum in, I know I'll cop it 'ot!
I'll be 'auled before the Gov'nor, an' I'll git an 'our's shot;
But whether I git punishment, or whether I do not,
They can't prevent me dreamin', love, of thee!