C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Violet Jacob (1863–1946)

I’M Sairgeant Weelum Henderson frae Pairth,

That’s wha I am!

There’s just ae regimint in a’ the airth

That’s worth a damn;

An’ gin the bonniest fechter o’ the lot

Ye seek to see,

Him that’s the best—whaur ilka man’s a Scot—

Speir you at me!

Gin there’s a hash o’ Gairmans pitten oot

By aichts an’ tens,

That Wully Henderson’s been thereaboot

A’body kens;

Fegs-aye! Yon Weelum that’s in Gairmanie,

He hadna’ reckoned

Wi’ Sairgint Weelum Henderson an’ wi’

The Forty-Second!

Yon day we lichtit on the shores o’ France,

The lassies standin’

Trod ilk on ither’s taes to get the chance

To see us landin’.

The besoms! O they smiled to me—an’ yet

They couldna’ help it.

(Mysel’, I just was thinkin’ foo we’d get

They Gairmans skelpit.)

I’m wearied wi’ them, for it’s aye the same

Whaure’er we gang,

Oor Captain thinks we’ve got his een to blame,

But man! he’s wrang!

I winna say he’s no as smairt a lad

As ye micht see

Atween twa Sawbiths—aye, he’s no sae bad,

But he’s no me!

Weel, let the limmers bide; their bonnie lips

Are fine an’ reid,

But me an’ Weelum’s got to get to grips

Afore we’re deid,

An’ gin he thinks he hasna’ met his match

He’ll sune be wiser—

Here’s to mysel’! Here’s to the auld Black Watch!

An’ damn the Kaiser!