THE NEW ATKINS
[“There is no limit for age as regards drafts for South Africa in peace time”—War Office Announcement.]
Oh, we take him from the nursery and the cot.
We abstract him from the cradle and the pram.
We teach him how to drill upon the spot,
And how to shoot as well, the pretty lamb.
For it doesn’t matter much about his age—
We enlist ’em long before they’ve learned to talk.
He can earn his daily ration by defending of his nation
As soon as he can hold a gun and walk.
O—oh, Tommy, Tommy Atkins,
You’re a good ’un, though you’re small.
You’re a credit to your nursery,
There’s no doubt of that at all.
May your luck be never failing,
May you ne’er run short of pap.
God bless you, Tommy Atkins,
You’re a splendid little chap.
Oh, the Frenchman and the German and the Russ
Are perpetually lurking near our shores.
They would make things very warm, indeed, for us,
If it wasn’t for the likes of you and yours.
They’re notoriously demons when they’re roused.
They would tackle every foe till all be blue.
They would fight sans apprehension any power you care to mention,
But they naturally shrink from touching you.
For (as before).
So, ye babes, who in your cradles linger yet,
Who chew in sloth the indiarubber ring,
We remember that you owe a holy debt
Of service to your country and your King.
And, though Duty call you out to Afric’s shore,
Do not hesitate, but be a little man.
Pressing forward, eager, willing, toddle up and take the shilling,
And become a little Atkins while you can.
O—oh, Tommy (as before)