There's no plume upon me helmet, 'n' no red
cross on me chest,
'N' so fur they haven't dressed me in a
swanking load of metal;
We've no 'Oly Grail I know of, but we do
our little best
With a jamtin, 'n' a billy, 'n' a battered
ole mess kettle.

Quite a lot of guyver missin' from our brand
of chivalry;
We don't make a pert procession when
we're movin' up the forces;
We've no pretty, pawin' stallion, 'n' no
pennants flowin' free,
'N' no giddy, gaudy bedquilts make a
circus of the 'orses.

We 'most always slip the cattle 'n' we cut out
all the dog
When it fairly comes to buttin' into battle's
hectic fever,
Goin' forward on our wishbones, with our
noses in the bog,
'N' we 'eave a pot iv blazes at the cursed
unbeliever.

Fancy-dress them old Crusaders wore,
and alwiz kep' a band.
What we wear's so near to nothin' that it's