They comes an' calls their Numbers One an inefficient crew
An' down it comes to junior N.C.O.'s;
An' then the B.S.M. chips in an' gives 'em 'oly 'ell,
An' the full edition's poured into the ear
Of the man that's got to be ubeek (an' you be--blest as well),
The man with actin' rank o' bombardier.

Or, if there's nothin' doin' of a winter afternoon,
The Old Man's at 'eadquarters 'avin' tea,
The section subs is feedin' up with oysters in Bethoon,
The Capting's snorin' out at the O.P.;
The Sergeant-Major's cleaned 'is teeth an' gone a prommynard,
The N.C.O.s is somewhere drinkin' beer,
An' the man they've left to work an' drill an' grouse an' mount the guard
Is of course your 'umble actin' bombardier.

Oh, I'm the man that takes fatigues for bringin' stores at night,
Conductin' G.S. wagons in the snow,
An' I'm the man that scrounges round to keep the 'ome fires bright
("An' don't you bloomin' well be pinched, you know");
An' I'm the man that lashes F.P.1.'s up to the gun,
An' acts the nursemaid 'alf the ruddy day;
An' fifty other little jobs that ain't exactly fun
Accompany one stripe (without the pay).

But no, we never grouses in the Roy'l Artillerie,
Of cheerful things to think there's quite a lot;
Old Sergeant Blobbs is goin' 'ome the end of Februree
To do instructin' stunts at Aldershot;
The S.M.'s recommended ('Eavens!) for commissioned rank,