H. SWADDYS LAMENT

SWADDYS LAMENT.

In this world there is wrong and right, and lots of people that I don't
like.

There are little things that make you sick, like round the tents they
cough and spit.

I know these folks must relieve nature, but aren't
These things enough to make you, feel as though you want to shout, and
from this Army to get out?

To civvy-street, that place of bliss, where there's a wife to love and
kiss.

But out here in this bloody place, conditions are a real
disgrace.
You live in tents the whole year round, pitched out upon the sandy
ground.
In the summer they are dusty and dry, but in the winter! &;#8230;
Oh! Dear my.
You should see them in the rain, you stop one leak, but all in vain,
you no sooner stop the one leak up, then another one will open
up.

Then all at once you hear -- Ping - Ping!
And one side of your tent falls in.

As guy ropes snap, and tents fall down, upon the wet and sticky ground,
there sits a swaddy named Bill or Horace
He's dreaming of old Monty's promise, of bedside lamps and beds with
springs! ----
But when do we get these bloody things?

While plodding about in the wet and mire, that same swaddy's dream, is
of a fire, to dry his clothes and to warm his feet, to climb into some
nice white sheets, to wake in the morning and find himself home, and to
find he never more will roam.

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Then all of a sudden he wakes with a start, --- for he hears the
Sargent Major bark. &;#8230;

" Get out of bed it's past five thirty. -- Clean your badge. -
Your boots are dirty. -- You're on a charge. -- Yes. A 252.
Three volunteers lads. You! - You! - And you!

So next time you talk to a bloke and he says.

" Wonderful life in the Army these days. "

Just tell him these words, and I hope that you find.

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That stupid young Bugger may then change his mind!