ad
As iver held a rifle,
An if ther wor owt in him bad,
'Twor nobbut just a trifle.
He wore a suit o' sooity grey,
To show 'at he wor willin
To feight for th' Queen and country
When perfect in his drillin.

His heead wor raand, his back wor straight,
His legs wor long an steady,
His fist wor fully two pund weight,
His heart wor true an ready;
His upper lip wor graced at th' top
Wi' mustache strong an bristlin,
It railly wor a spicy crop;
Yo'd think to catch him whistlin.

His buzzum burned wi' thowts o' war,
He long'd for battles' clatter,
He grieved to think noa foeman dar
To cross that sup o' watter;
He owned one spot,--an nobbut one,
Within his heart wor tender,
An as his darlin had it fun,
He'd be her bold defender.

At neet he donn'd his uniform,
War trials to endure,
An helped his comrades brave, to storm
A heap ov horse manure!
They said it wor a citidel,
Fill'd wi' some hostile power,
They boldly made a breach, and well
They triumph'd in an hour.

They did'nt wade to th' knees i' blooid,
(That spoils one's britches sadly,)
But th' pond o' sypins did as gooid,
An scented 'em as badly;
Ther wor noa slain to hug away,
Noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin,
They lived to feight another day,
An spend ther neets i' rantin.

Brave Johnny's rooad wor up a loin
Where all wor dark an shaded,
Part grass, part stooans, part sludge an slime
But quickly on he waded;
An nah an then he cast his e'e
An luk'd behund his shoulder.
He worn't timid, noa net he!
He crack'd, "he knew few bolder."

But once he jumped, an sed "Oh dear!"
Becoss a beetle past him;
But still he wor unknown to fear,
He'd tell yo if yo asked him.
He could'nt help for whispering once,
"This loin's a varry long un,
A chap wod have but little chonce
Wi thieves, if here amang 'em."

An all at once he heeard a voice
Cry out, "Stand and deliver!
Your money or your life, mak choice,
Before your brains I shiver;"
He luk'd all raand, but failed to see
A sign of livin craytur,
Then tremlin dropt upon his knee,
Fear stamp'd on ivvery faytur.

"Gooid chap," he said, "mi rifle tak,
Mi belts, mi ammunition,
Aw've nowt but th' clooas 'at's o' mi back
Oh pity mi condition;
Aw wish aw'd had a lot o' brass,
Aw'd gie thi ivvery fardin;
Aw'm nobbut goin to meet a lass,
At Tate's berry garden."

"Aw wish shoo wor, aw dooant care where,