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Oh, me and my cousin, one Arthur McBride |
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As we went a-walkin' down by the seaside |
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Mark know what followed and what did betide |
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For it bein' on Christmas mornin' |
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Now, for recreation, we went on a tramp |
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And we met Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vamp |
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And a little wee drummer intending to camp |
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For the day bein' pleasant and charming. |
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"Good morning, good morning," the sergeant he cried |
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"And the same to you gentleman," we did reply |
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Intending no harm but means to pass by |
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For it bein' on Christmas morning |
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"But," says he, "My fine fellows, if you will enlist |
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Ten guineas in gold I'll stick in your fist |
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And a crown in the bargain for to kick up the dust |
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And drink the king's health in the morning. |
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"For a soldier, he leads a very fine life |
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And he always is blessed with a charming young wife |
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And he pays all his debts without sorrow or strike |
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And he always lives pleasant and charmin' |
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And a soldier he always is decent and clean |
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In the finest of clothing he's constantly seen |
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While other poor fellows go dirty and mean |
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And sup on thin gruel in the morning". |
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"But," says Arthur, "I wouldn't be proud of your clothes |
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For you've only the lend of them, as I suppose |
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But you're dare not change them one night, for you know |
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If you do, you'll be flogged in the morning |
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And although that we're single and free |
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We take great delight in our own company |
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We have no desire strange places to see |
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Althoug that your offers are charming. |
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"And we have no desire to take your advance |
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All hazards and dangers we barter on chance |
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For you'd have no scruples for to send us to France |
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Where we could get shot without warning" |
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"Oh no," says the Sergeant, "I'll have no such chat |
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And neither will I take it from snappy young brats |
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For if you insult me with one other word |
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I'll cut off your heads in the morning". |
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And Arthur and I, we soon drew our hogs |
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And we scarce gave them time to draw their own blades |
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When a trusty shillelagh came over their head |
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And bid them take that as fair warning |
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And their old rusty rapiers that hung by their sides |
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We flung them as far as we could in the tide |
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"Now take them up, devils !" cried Arthur McBride |
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"And temper their edge in the morning!". |
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And the little wee drummer, we flattered his bow |
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And we made a football of his rowdy-dow-dow |
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Threw it in the tide for to rock and to roll |
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And bade it a tedious returning |
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And we havin' no money, paid them off in cracks |
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We paid no respect to their two bloody backs |
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And we lathered them there like a pair of wet sacks |
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And left them for dead in the morning. |
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And so, to conclude and to finish disputes |
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We obligingly asked if they wanted recruits |
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For we were the lads who would give them hard clouts |
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And bid them look sharp in the morning. |
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Oh, me and my cousin, one Artur McBride |
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As we went a-walkin' down by the seaside |
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Mark now what followed and what did betide |
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For it bein' on Christmas morning. |