All got it in their heads to join the Territorials
And now he's fairly got the craze, he's bought us each a gun
You ought to see him drilling us, it fairly takes the bun
There's three of us he orders out and makes us form a square
He drills us in the cellar and he drills us everywhere.
Chorus: Since poor Father joined the Territorials
Ours is a happy little home
He wakes us up in the middle of the night
Says we must all be prepared to fight
He puts poor Mother in the dustbin
To keep on sentry guard
And there's me and brother John
With our little night-shirts on
Drilling in the old back yard.
The other day our spare time all of us had to devote
And dig the garden up in front and make a big deep moat
We cross it by a plank, then pull it up, oh what a lark
Poor Father tumbled in last night through scouting in the dark
He always blows a bugle when it's time to have our grub
And Mother always blows one now to fetch him from the pub.
Chorus:
We stand at ease, and shoulder arms, until our shoulders ache
And now he's made a rifle range, it fairly takes the cake
He's nailed a frying pan up, and a saucepan strange to tell
He kids himself it's Bisley, but it's only Camberwell
When shooting Yesterday, a man said, 'Stop it Funny Cuts.
You've been and hit my missis, will you have cigars or nuts?'
Chorus:
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F |
G |
H |
I |
J |
K |
L |
M |
N |
O |
P |
Q |
R |
S |
T |
U |
V |
W |
X |
Y |
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