Poem - Sergeant Charles Townsend O’Niell

Soldiers’ Day

By Sergeant Charles Townsend O’Niell

A reveille in the morning, we rise out of our doss,

Grab our blooming towels, an’ go an’ ‘ave a wash,

Get some dirty coffee--without sugar it’s made -

An’ after we have swallowed arf go out on parade;

They call the roll before yer go -it s no use working lurks;

We go an’ do about an hour at what we call Physical Jerks.

Then we goes for breakfast, same as all soldiers do,

An like a lot of cannibals we bog into the stew,

Growling, ever growling, till we’ve got our bellies full;

Next comes washing up, when at cigarettes we pull,

Clean yer boots an’ have a shave, then it’s 9 o clock.

Fall in again for parade like a blooming fighting cook.

The OC. Yells out the syllabus, Platoon Commanders carry on;

We march off like martyrs, who have been trod upon,

Slope arms, stand at ease, not a move, you lazy lout,

Attention, form fours, quick march, you hear the sergeant shout;

Eleven o clock is come at last, we’re walked nearly off our feet,

The language for a quarter-hour would sink the German Fleet.

Turn to again, more drill - that’s if it isn’t raining-

Then to the stand we go and do some visual training;

You gaze upon the targets till you re silly in the head,

You wonder what they’re coming at, and wish that you were dead;

Company, attention, dismiss, is a sound we like to hear,

For our bellies empty, and dinner-time is near.

The details of the dinner, with you I will not bore,

Except when we are  finished we sprawl upon the floor,

A tellin’ each other’s troubles, and hardships by the mile,

Till the blanky whistle goes, fall in in double file;

Then the officers come round to see how ye are fareing,

An’ all that I can notice is an improvement in the swearing.

The bread and jam it comes at last,

That’s the time we do a fast;

A tin of jam between eight men,

Bread enough to feed a hen;

Oh, yes, we have a glorious feast,

On nasty rotten jam an’ yeast.

Then we’re off till 9-30 - that’s if yer not on guard,

Quarter-Master books fatigue, or cleaning up the yard,

At last post we make our doss, an’ think we’ve earned our pay,

Lights out 10pm. ends a soldier’s day.