‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

They’re calling for volunteers,
(but it’ll be over for Christmas):
United are playing on Saturday;
and there’ll be room for a likely lad,
whose fast with his feet
and hard with his fists.

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

Kitchener’s man, you’ll be;
and United on Saturday for me:
with my feet and fists, I’ll be a likely lad.
You’ll not see me, but Saturday,
and I’ll not curse and swear
to the Corporal’s yell.

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

Drill your feet to the bone
and wear your hands raw:
dig your trenches and fill your bags,
scream your hate and stab your bayonet;
and sob with fear – (it could be you).
You’ll not see me, but Saturday.

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

You’ve gone to the Front,
carrying your kitbags
and singing ‘Tipperary’:
you’ll not see me, but Saturday;
(and it’ll be over by Christmas);
and you’ll be home then: United.

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

They’re calling for volunteers,
(but it’ll be over by Easter)
and United play on Saturday;
and a lad whose quick with his feet
and strong with his shoulder,
will find a place – (there’s a likely lad).

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

But Kitchener’s man I’ll be,
and no Saturday for me;
called to the Colours:
“You’ll make a likely lad,
and curse and swear
to the Corporal’s yell.”

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

I’ve drilled me feet bloody
and worn me hands raw;
I’ve sobbed with fear
and cried with anger.
I’ve stabbed yon likely dummy
and dug yon bloody trench.

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

They’re sending us off by boat,
the bait cast with the fishing float.
They’re sending us off from the coast,
to keep and to feed someone’s boast.
They’re sending us off to beat
another Country’s petty seat.
They’re sending us off to caulk
their seams with lead-tongued talk.

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

They’re sending us off to war,
to tread on the greenery and gore.
They’re sending us off to fight,
into the unforgiving night.
They’re sending us off with music,
“God Save The Peoples’ Pridy Physic.”
They’re sending us off this ‘proud day’,
“God help us and save us,” we pray.

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

There’ll be no bloody Saturday for me,
we’re United now, all bloodless faces;
we likely lads called to the Colours –
now all waiting behind the Front,
cold, wet, muddy and miserable:
“Finished by Easter – (?) – bloody Easter!”

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

Another Christmas, and it’ll all be over,
(but you’ll take that with a spit in the wind);
here crouch I, ‘three-sheets-to-the-wind’,
as legless as any gutter drunkard;
my legs stretched before me,
my lap awash with mud and vomit,
my bottom cooled by red-clotted water.

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

There’ll be no Saturday for me,
nor fight against other likely lads,
and I’ll not win against United:
I’ve a pension for me legs
and a medal to remember ’em by.

‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
‘Tis the sound of the marching feet;
‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy,
‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat,
‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy;
‘Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.

And me? I was Kitchener’s Man.

©Chris Green, 1980 & 2006