*Tommy Advises*

Take your rifle from the rack: Take your bay'nit from the shelf; Clean your straps for marchin' order, An' git ready for the Border. For it ain't no sham attack, So you needn't kid yourself. It's a ball an' bay'nit action With the perfect satisfaction Of a medal, an' a ribbon, and perhaps a clasp or two. For a-doin' of the little job your betters couldn't do.

Pack your socks, an' fold your shirt, Wash your water-bottle out, It'll make your marchin' easy If your boots are nice an' greasy,-- An' some dubbin wouldn't 'urt. You can chuck your weight about; There's an 'appy day before you, When the civvies will adore you, And the things wot used to shock 'em will be favoured with a smile. And your little faults an' failin's won't be noticed for a while.

Git a guernsey out of store-- Winter's very cold above, An' the wind an' rain will find you If you leave your clothes behind you! Trust your pretty self before Any Quartermaster's love; For there's no store to go unto An' no tailors' shops to run to; For it ain't no ten days' skirmish these manoeuvres wot you're in, An' a little flannel weskit 'ides a multitood of skin!

Write your letters for the mail; Tell your people all the news-- For your folks'll prize the writin' Of 'my son who's out a-fightin'.' Don't you spin an awful tale, Just to give your mother blues, For the day the boys are cryin' 'List o' wounded, dead and dyin'!' Will be tons of time for them at 'ome to feel a trifle blue, When they see a dozen Smiths are killed--and wonder which is you!