To 'is tent, an' 'e's picked up 'is bugle,
An' started to practice 'Attack'.

Bert's bugle call put t' British camp in confusion.
T' Shop Stewards gave t' Generals a warnin';
If they didn't get t' rest of their dinner-hour off,
They'd want 'alf an 'our's lay-in next morning.

After t' meetin' in t' mess-tent, t' were chaos
As they queued to throw t' dinners away,
But not one of them really minded that much,
'Cos the chips were dead soggy that day.

They got t' nosebags off most of their 'orses,
Then saddled an' mounted for t' do,
And mustered The Gallant Six Hundred,
Minus one or two still in the loo.

Into t' Valley of Death rode t' Six 'Undred,
T' Russians didn't 'alf give us what for.
See, when Bert played 'Attack', they'd all finished their din,
'Cos they'd all 'ad theirs one hour before.

Canons to t' left of us, canons to t' right of us,
T' younger lads were not used to such dangers.
  Some were 'ardened to t' sight of death, blood, guts an' gore,
'Specially those who'd seen Celtic play Rangers!

Lord Lucan still led the charge onwards,
Though 'is boots were quite filthy by then.
'E 's murmered "I think someone's blundered.
Tha'll not catch me doin' this again!"

In t' Directors' Box, up in the grandstand,
Where most of the Generals were,
General Bosquet, a French lad, 'e cries "Sacre Bleu!
Magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la geurre!"

As the Generals all sat up there watchin',
An' tryin' to find out the score,
Raglan says "Wot wi' our away record,
I 'ad this one down as score-draw."

But we got revenge t' next time we met 'em.
We trampled 'em into the ground,
In front of an 'ome crowd in Moscow,
Knocked 'em out of t' World Cup in t' first round!


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