Classic Poem

When the lark, in ether singing,
Tunes his matins to the skies,
Briskly from a straw-bed springing,
Jolly soldiers rise.

While here in camp we lie,
Dull sorrow we defy;
No care can damp our joys,
We're merry English boys!

Oh, when the gay reveillee sounds,
From earth's fresh lap the soldier bounds;
Then rub-a-dub-a-dub the drummer goes,
And toota-toota-too the fifer blows.
We are soldiers of Britain, we revel and sing;
We are staunch in the cause of our country and king