It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease,
To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees,
For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards,
So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards.
Till it's best foot first, etc.
So 'ark an 'eed you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore,
There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore;
And if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell
You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well.
For it's best foot first, etc.
Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band.
We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand,