Tommy

TOMMY

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,

О 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,

О 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

’ 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,

О 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,

’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 -

’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s

trouble in the wind,

О 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:

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!»

’s «Saviour of ’is country» when the

An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’

anything you please;

An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool - you bet