When Sam Small joined
the regiment,
he were nobita raw recruit,
and they marched him away
one wintry day,
his musket course to shoot.
They woke him up at the crack of dawn
with many a nudge and shake.
He were dreaming that Sergeant
had broke his neck
and he didn't want awake.
Lieutenant Bird came on parade
and chided the lads for mooning.
He talked in a voice like a pound of plums.
His tonsils needed pruning.
Move to the right by fours,
he said, crisp like,
but most severe.
But Sam didn't know he's right from his left,
so pretended he didn't hear.
Said Lieutenant, Sergeant,
take that man's name."
The sergeant took out his pencil.
He was getting ashamed
of taking Sam's name
and was thinking of cutting a stencil.
Sam carried a musket,
a knapsack and coat,
spare boots that he'd
managed to wangle,
an hatchet, a spade.
In fact, as Sam said, he'd
got everything by a kitchen mangle.
"'March easy, men,'
Lieutenant cried,
as the musket range grew near.
"'March easy, me
blushing Aunt Fanny,'
said Sam.
"'What a chance with
all this here!'
When they told him to fire at five hundred yards,
Sam nearly had a fit
for a six -foot wall
or the Albert Hall,
for all he were likely to hit.
He had fitted a cork
in his musket end
to keep his powder dry,
and he didn't remember to take it out
the first time he let fly.
His gun went off with a kind of pop.
Where his bullet went no one knew,
but next day they spoke
of a tinker's moke
being killed by a cork near Crewe.
At three hundred yards
Sam shut his eyes
and took a careful lame.
He failed to score, but the marker swore,
and walked away quite lame.
At two hundred yards
Sam fired so wild
that the sergeant feared for his skin,
and the lads all cleared
into the neighbouring field
and started to dig themselves in.
Oh, sergeant,
I hear a scraping noise,
said Sam.
What can it be?
The noise that he heard were Lifton and Bird,
who were climbing the nearest
tree.
Oh, Sergeant, said Sam,
I've hit the bull,
what price my shooting
now?
Said the Sergeant,
A bull, you gormless fool,
yon isn't a bull, it's a cow.
At fifty yards his musket kicked,
and went off with a noise like a blizzard,
and down came a crow looking fair
surprised with his ram
rod through its gizzard.
As he loaded his musket to fire again
said the sergeant,
don't waste shot.
You'd best fix bayonets
and charge my lad.
It's the only chance you've got.
Sam kept loading his gun
while the sergeant spoke
till the bul lets peeped
out at the muzzle.
When all of a sudden it
went off bang.
What made it go off were a puzzle.
The bullets flew out in a kind of spray,
and everything round got peppered.
When they counted his score,
he'd got eight bullseyes,
four magpies,
two lambs and a shepherd.
And the sergeant for this got a DCM,
and the colonel an OBE.
Lieutenant Baird got a DSO,
and Sam got five days' C .B.