To The Regimental Gong

From a wooden tripod hanging,
Where the sentry’s spurs are clanging,
Stands the Regimental time-piece – yelept “The gong”,
Every hour, in every season,
(For to miss e’en one is treason)
With a mallet, on your face, is played a song.

You have served in many climes,
From Old Ireland to the Indies, And have sung your “Song of Time” to black and white.
By your face – n’er one of palour –
Are recalled the deeds of valour,
That were done by men – for Britain, Home, and Right.

You have frizzled in the tropics,
Where dusky foemen played their antics,
And you’ve had your nights out, in an artic cold;
Yet today you’re bright and shining,
As the hour I “took the Shilling”,
And seem to have forgotten that you’re old.

Curious scenes you have seen enacted,
When the cork has been extracted,
From the bottle called Life, by sons of Mars,
Who, all the world a’ scorning,
Set out gaily in the morning,
Soon again to tap at different kinds of bars.

Midst the joy and great good cheer
Of the dawn of each New Year,
To the Sergeants mess you’ve marched, and you
The Orderly Officer belabours,
To tell all friends and neighbours,
That the year has changed its name from Old to New.

Tho’ you’ve done your time for pension,
And your age I dare not mention,
You will never be a moment “off the strength”,
So upon your bronze feature,
May more honours be a fixture,
When again you go attreckin’ with The Tenth.