For a housemaid
she's hired an old woman —
a nice surprise for him!

Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken!
Keeping time is power's token.
That makes one of many, many,
That makes bold, if fear daunts any,
That makes small the load and lighter,
That makes near the goal and brighter,
Till it greets us gained with laughter,
And we seek the next one after.

Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken!
Keeping time is power's token.
Marching, marching of few hundreds,
No one heeds it, never one dreads;
Marching, marching of few thousands,
Here and there wakes some to hearing;

His wife away from home
he spends the entire day
looking for things.

Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she:
" Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now — it's the fortunate woman you are;
You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, but me Patsy boy where is he?
Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr.
Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last, wid his hair all curly and bright,
And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away,
Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height:

" You're in the prime
of widowhood " — what a way
to compliment a woman!

How long it seems
when you undo a woman's sash
while lying in bed!

(A Dirge of Sin and Sorrow, Sung by Joe Swallow)

There was a Squatter in the land —
So runs the truthful tale I tell —
There also were three Cornstalks, and
There also was the Squatter's Well.

Singing ( slowly ): " Sin and sorrer, sin and sor-rer, sin and sor-r-r-rer. "

The Squatter he was full of pluck,

In your high honour meriting on high,
O noble Sir, unto high star you fly:
Hy your deserts most noble Lord admit,
No lower then among the stars you sit.

Starry your graces most resplendent are,
The light you shew, makes me think you a star ,
Vertue will cause eternally your name,
According to your merits rais'd by fame;
Raised aloft on high unto by star ,
Tryumphantly in vertues glorious car.

My stretcher is one scarlet stain,
And as I tries to scrape it clean,
I tell you wot—I'm sick with pain
For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen;
Around me is the 'ellish night,
And as the war's red rim I trace,
I wonder if in 'Eaven's height,
Our God don't turn away 'Is face.

I don't care 'oose the Crime may be;
I 'olds no brief for kin or clan;
I 'ymns no ate: I only see
As man destroys his brother man;
I waves no flag: I only know,
As 'ere beside the dead I wait,
A million 'earts is weighed with woe,

Oh, some of us lolled in the château,
And some of us slinked in the slum;
But now we are here with a song and a cheer
To serve at the sign of the drum.
They put us in trousers of scarlet,
In big sloppy ulsters of blue;
In boots that are flat, a box of a hat,
And they call us the little piou-piou,
Piou-piou,
The laughing and quaffing piou-piou,
The swinging and singing piou-piou;
And so with a rattle we march to the battle,
The weary but cheery piou-piou.

Encore un petit verre de vin,
Pour nous mettre en route;