NARRATOR
Slogging homeward every day.
But soon, soon, very soon, he will be home to stay.
The Soldier is tired, in need of a rest.
So he throws down his pack at the side of the lane.
And proceeds to do what a soldier does best:
He starts to complain.
SOLDIER
Bloody army! I’ve had it up to here.
I must have been mad to sign on for ten year.
Don’t get me started, I might never stop.
Any road, this here’s not a bad spot.
NARRATOR
He sits down at the side of the road, opens his pack and grumbles on.
SOLDIER
Always on the bloody go, broke more or less…
By heck, but my kit’s in a hell of mess!
Where’s my St. Joseph?
NARRATOR
He plumbs the depths of his pack
In search of a lucky medallion, he has
With the face of his namesake, St. Joseph,
Neatly engraved on the back.
SOLDIER
Ah-ha-hah! Good, here we are!
NARRATOR
He carries on rummaging in his bag
Pulls out cartridges, a box of matches, he rummages on.
A mirror with most of the silvering gone.
SOLDIER
Now, where’s her picture? That would be missed.
The picture she gave me, my girlfriend that is.
That she gave me the day I went off to enlist.
NARRATOR
He finds her picture at last! And then,
Hey diddle, diddle, from right in the middle,
The soldier pulls out, an old brown fiddle.
SOLDIER
Ah! It didn’t cost much, the tone is not rich.
And you have to keep screwing it back up to pitch, hold on,
But once in tune, by God, this’n.
Well, judge for yourself.
Just sit back and listen!
|
