Lyr Add: Whitley Camp

Subject: Lyr Add: Whitley Camp
From: *#1 PEASANT*
Date: 21 Jun 04 - 07:08 PM

Whitley Camp

Written on the occasion of the Felling Artillery Corps camping on Whitley Sands, September 1862

Hae ye been doon at Whitley Sands
Ti see the warriors campin'?
It's worth your while ti gan an see
The Sangit lions rampin'.
The're just as feerce as untyem'd goats,
An' all liked sowlgers dress'd;
They've a bunch ov hair upon their jaws
Just like a yowley's nest.

Wack, fal de ral, etc.

Their little huts, like sugar-loaves,
All pointin' to the sky;
And woe betide the enemy I
If he gans ower nigh.
In the inside the warrior rests
Upon his rusty spear;
He luiks as if he was distress'd
Wi' backey and wi' beer.

Wack, etc.

They talk they want ti hae them used
Ti stand all kinds o' wether,
The whins and bents and strang sea air
Will tan their hides like lether.
The enemy may fire away,
An' try their utmost skill,
Nee shot'll pierce their harden'd frames,
The'll stand invincible.

Whack, etc.

The neet was dark when Tommy Todd
Was as th' sentry walkin',
An outlandish beast he thowt he saw
Amang the tents was stalkin'.
In th' queen's nyem, he cries "whe's there?"
He ne'er tyuk time to study-
Off went his rifle wiv a crack
At Andrew Drummoknd's cuddy.

Whack, etc.

The poor beast ran, an' gav a yell,
Tommy dropt on th' green;
'Twas said when he got up agyen
He wasn't ower clean,
At last the grand review cum on,
Ther surely was sum fun
Ti see the warriors fight the fish
Wi' Willy Armstrang's gun

Whack, etc.

The greet guns roar'd, the fire flew,
It was a grand display;
The sea-gulls scream'd an' flapped their wings,
An' flew far nor' away.
The greet round-shot went plish-for-plash
Inti the tortured deep;
They myed the crabs and lobsters hop,
An' the fish cud get nee sleep.

Whack, etc.

Jacky Scott, the pollisman,
Wiv a fyece byeth black and cloody,
He sweers that nyen shall do them rang,
Nee man shall hurt a noody.
Oh! they're the cream ov Britain's bowl,
Them, ne uther troop surpasses-
In the canteen their valour's seen
Amang the pots and glasses.

Whack, etc.

The French may brag ov body-guards,
An' crack aboot ther warrin';
Giv our campin' lads but Willy's gun,
They'll put them off their sparrin'.
Aw think we aw may safely say
Ne mair we'll be neglected;
But wi sutch guns and vallient men
Wor shores are weel protected.

Whack, etc

-Edward Elliott, 1862