Speranza
The refrain to The Whiffenpoof Song has always been a source of great amusement to many.
It was
written in 1909 as a parody of a Kipling poem.
From the tables down at Mory's, to the place where Louie dwells,
To the
dear old Temple bar we love so well.
Sang the whiffenpoofs assembled with
their glasses raised on high
And the magic of their singing cast its
spell.
Yes, the magic of their singing of the songs we love so well,
“Shall I Wasting” and “Mavoureen” and the rest.
We will serenade our
Louie while life and voice shall last
Then we'll pass and be forgotten with
the rest.
We're poor little lambs who have lost our way. Bah, bah,
bah.
We're little black sheep who have gone astray. Bah, bah,
bah.
Gentlemen songsters off on a spree
Damned from here to
eternity
Lord have mercy on such as we! Bah, bah, bah.
To the legion of the
lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,
To my brethren in their sorrow
overseas,
Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely
crammed,
And a trooper of the Empress, if you please.
Yea, a trooper of
the forces who has run his own six horses,
And faith he went the pace and
went it blind,
And the world was more than kin while he held the ready
tin,
But to-day the Sergeant's something less than kind.
We're poor little
lambs who've lost our way, Baa! Baa! Baa!
We're little black sheep who've
gone astray, Baa--aa--aa!
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from
here to Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we, Baa! Yah! Bah!
Oh, it's
sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops,
And it's sweet
to hear the tales the troopers tell,
To dance with blowzy housemaids at the
regimental hops
And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well.
Yes, it
makes you cock-a-hoop to be "Rider" to your troop,
And branded with a blasted
worsted spur,
When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being
cleanly
Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you "Sir".
If the
home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep,
And all we know most
distant and most dear,
Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our
sleep,
Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?
When the drunken
comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern gutters
And the horror of our
fall is written plain,
Every secret, self-revealing on the aching
white-washed ceiling,
Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from
pain?
We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and
Truth,
We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,
And the measure of
our torment is the measure of our youth.
God help us, for we knew the worst
too young!
Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the
sentence,
Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,
And the Curse of
Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us
And we die, and none can tell
Them where we died.
We're poor little lambs who've lost our way, Baa! Baa!
Baa!
We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
Baa--aa--aa!
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to
Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we, Baa! Yah! Bah!
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