BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING

poem Charles Lever, music. Sean Tyrrell

Bad luck to this marching,
pipeclaying and starching,
How neat you must be to be killed by the French.
I'm sick of parading,
through cold and wet wading,
Or standing all night to be shot in a trench.
To the tune of a fife
they dispose of your life,
They surrender your soul to some illigant lilt;
Now I like "Garryowen"
when I hear it at home,
But it's not half so sweet when your about to be kilt.

Though up late and early
our pay comes so rarely,
The devil a farthing we've ever to spare;
They say some disaster
befell the paymaster,
On my soul I don't think that the money is there.
And, oh, what a blunder,
they won't let us plunder,
While the convents invite us to rob them, 'tis clear;
Though there isn't a village
but cries, "Come and pillage!"
Yet we leave all the mutton behind for Monsieur.

Like a sailor that's nigh land,
I long for that island
Where even the kisses we steal if we please.
Where it is no disgrace
if you don't wash your face,
And you've nothing to do but to stand at your ease.
With no sergeant to abuse us,
we fight to amuse us,
Sure it's better beat Christians than kick a baboon,
How I'd dance like a fairy
to see old Dunleary
And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a Dragoon.