Our Colour-Sergeant
From Sawiki
God bless our Colour-Sergeant! 'Tis the cry of all our hearts.
When he gets his 'marching orders' he'll be ready.
He's done his bit of fighting. When his honest soul departs,
We shall miss our dear old comrade true and steady.
He's very fond of children, and he loves to have them near,
And he keeps a stock of sweetmeats always handy;
They gather round so merry, and without a thought of fear,
They scramble for his little bits of candy.
He's a credit to the Army, a pillar to the corps;
He's a bulwark! - carts and horses couldn't move him.
When he executes his orders= Don't worry any more,'
For `he'll see them through,' say those who often prove him.
He's rather slow at grasping what his Captain wishes done,
But when he understands his C.O's meaning,
He goes it quiet and steady, and he gets his task begun -
Be't helping push 'The War Cry' or hall cleaning.
There's nothing fickle in him, he's a monument to stand;
He's a bed-rock soldier - this there's no denying.
From early days he's struggled, and he's got a record grand,
And for furlough he is seldom found applying.
He gets a sight of service from the uniform he wears,
For his missis keeps it very clean and tidy.
He isn't flush with money, and the bit he's got he shares,
And he fires his cartridge reg'lar every Sunday.
He's proud of his commission, and he dearly loves his flag,
For long years since he fought to save its tatters.
He gathered for a new one - but he treasures up the rag,
And he shows a scar to those who cry 'What matters?'
He's fussy on the question as to who shall take it out,
For he isn't gone on handing it to others -
That's my job,' he will whisper, and without a bit of doubt
He can fill the bill as well as younger brothers.
At the swearing-in of soldiers, and dedications, too;
Or at weddings he will keep the colours waving.
At `big go's' with the hundreds or at knee-drills with the few,
He is there to pray and help God do the saving.
He's rather rough and rugged, but his eyes can kindle fire;
When he shakes you by the hand - well - you can feel it!
He spots the headstrong youngsters, helps them tumble into line;
If a comrade's heart is sore-he'll try to heal it.
God bless our Colour-Sergeant! 'Tis the cry of all our hearts.
When he gets his `marching orders' he'll be ready.
He's done his bit of fighting. When his honest soul departs,
We shall miss our dear old comrade true and steady.
We'll follow on behind him; drop our tears into his grave;
Look beyond the sky-bird in the heavens singing,
And ask God make us like him, and above him we shall wave
The flag he loved - While volleys loud are ringing.
Anon
