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THE KERRY RECRUIT (2)

At the age of nineteen, I was ploughin' the land
With me brogues on me feet and me spade in me hand
Says I to meself, "What a pity to see
Such a fine Kerry lad diggin' spuds in Tralee"

chorus:
To me Kerry-I-Ah, fa lal deral lay
Kerry-I-Ah, fa lal deral lay

So I buttered me brogues and shook hands with me spade
And went off to the fair like a dashing young blade
A sergeant come up and said "Would ye enlist?"
"Sure, sergeant," says I, "Slip the bob in me fist"

Then up came a captain, a man of great fame
Who straightways enquires me country and name
Well, I told him before as I'd tell him again
That me father and mother were two Kerrymen
Well the first thing they gave me it was a red coat
With a lump of black leather to tie 'round me throat
The next thing they gave me --- I said "What is that?"
"Sure, man, a cockade for to stick in yer hat!"

The next thing they gave me they called it a horse
With a saddle and bridle, me two legs across
Well, I gave 'er the whip and I gave 'er the steel
And, Oh Holy Mother! She went like an eel

The next thing they gave me, they called it a gun
So under the trigger I settled me thumb
The gun it belched fire, and vomited smoke
And gave me poor shoulder the Divil's own stroke

The next place they took us was down to the sea
Aboard a great ship, bound for the Crimea
With three sticks in the middle, all covered with sheet
She walked on the water without any feet

We reached Balaclava all safe and all sound
And tired and weary we lay on the ground
Next morning at daybreak a bugle did call
And served us a breakfast of powder and ball

We whipped them at Alma and at Inkerman
But the Rooshians they foiled us at the Redan
While scaling a rampart meself lost an eye
And a great Russian bullet ran away with me thigh

All dyin' and bleedin' I lay on the ground
With me arms, legs and feet all scattered around
Says I to meself, "If me father was nigh
He would bury me, sure, just for fear I might die"

But a surgeon come up and he soon stops the blood
And he made me an iligant leg made of wood
And they made me a pension of tenpence a day
And contented on shiela I live on half-pay
(Last verse by Richard Dyer-Bennett)
Now that was the story my grandfather told
As he sat by the fire all withered and old
"Remember," said he,"that the Irish fight well
But the Russian artillery's hotter than Hell"


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