SHILLIN' A DAY

My name is O'Kelly, I've heard the Revelly
From Birr to Bareilly, from Leeds to Lahore,
Hong-Kong and Peshawur,

Lucknow and Etawah,

And fifty-five more all endin' in 'pore.'

Black Death and his quickness, the depth and the

thickness,

Of sorrow and sickness I've known on my way,

But I'm old and I'm nervis,

I'm cast from the Service,

And all I deserve is a shillin' a day.

(Chorus.) Shillin' a day

Bloomin' good pay

Lucky to touch it, a shillin' a day!

Oh, it drives me half crazy to think of the days I
Went slap for the Ghazi my sword at my side,

When we rode Hell-for-leather

Both squadrons together,

That didn't care whether we lived or we died.

But it's no use desparin', my wife must go charin'

An' me commissairin' the pay-bills to better,

So if me you be'old

In the wet and the cold,

By the Grand Metropold won't you give me a letter? (Full Chorus.) Give 'im a letter

Can't do no better

Late Troop-Sergeant Major an’—runs

with a letter!

Think what 'e's been,

Think what 'e's seen,

Think of his pension an'

GAWD SAVE THE QUEEN!

L'ENVOI

THERE'S a whisper down the field where the year

has shot her yield,

And the ricks stand grey to the sun,

Singing:-'Over then, come over, for the bee has

quit the clover,

And your English summer's done.'

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,

And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song-how long! how

long?

Pull out on the trail again!

Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,

We've seen the seasons through,

And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own

trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail

It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun

Or South to the blind Horn's hate;

Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,

Or West to the Golden Gate;

Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,

And the wildest tales are true,

And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own

trail, the out trail,

And life runs large on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old,

And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;

And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll

Of a black Bilbao tramp;

With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,

And a drunken Dago crew,

And her nose held down on the old trail, our

own trail, the out trail

From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail-the trail

that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,

Or the way of a man with a maid;

But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea

In the heel of the North-East Trade.

Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,
And the drum of the racing screw,

As she ships it green on the old trail, our own
trail, the out trail,

As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,

And the fenders grind and heave,

And the derricks clack and grate as the tackle

hooks the crate,

And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;

It's 'Gang-plank up and in,' dear lass,

It's 'Hawsers warp her through!'

And it's 'All clear aft' on the old trail, our

own trail, the out trail,

We're backing down on the Long Trail-the

trail that is always new.