The Twa Weelums

A poem by Violet Jacob

I'm Sairgeant Weelum Henderson frae Pairth,
That's wha I am!
There's jist ae bluidy regiment on 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' Sairgeant 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
The 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 Sawbaths - 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 hasn't met his match
He'll sune be wiser.
Here's to mysel'! Here's to the auld Black Watch!
An' damn the Kaiser!

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