Arthur McBride Traditional - as sung by Bob Dylan Oh me and my cousin, one Arthur McBride As we went a-walkin’ down by the seaside Mark now what followed and what did betide For it bein’ on Christmas mornin’ Now for recreation, we went on a tramp And we met Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vamp And a little wee drummer intending to camp For the day bein’ pleasant and charmin’ Good mornin’, good mornin’, the Sergeant he cried And the same to you, gentlemen, we did reply Intending no harm but meant to pass by For it bein’ on Christmas mornin’ But, says he, my fine fellows, if you will enlist Ten guineas in gold I’ll stick in your fist And a crown in the bargain for to kick up the dust And drink the king’s health in the mornin’ For a soldier, he leads a very fine life And he always is blessed with a charming young wife And he pays all his debts without sorrow or strife And he always lives pleasant and charmin’ And a soldier, he always is decent and clean In the finest of clothing he’s constantly seen While the poor fellows go dirty and mean And sup on thin gruel in the mornin’ But, says Arthur, I wouldn’t be proud of your clothes For you’ve only the lend of them, as I suppose But you dare not change them one night, for you know If you do, you’ll be flogged in the morning And although that we we’re single and free We take great delight in our own company We have no desire strange places to see Although that your offers are charming And we have no desire to take your advance All hazards and dangers we barter on chance For you’d have no scruples for to send us to France Where we would get shot without warnin’ Oh no, says the Sergeant, I’ll have no such chat And neither will I take it from snappy young brats For if you insult me with one other word I’ll cut off your heads in the mornin’ And Arthur and I, we soon drew our hogs And we scarce gave them time to draw their own blades When a trusty shillelagh* came over their head And bid them take that as fair warnin’ And their old rusty rapiers that hung by their sides We flung them as far as we could in the tide Now take them up, devils! cried Arthur McBride And temper their edge in the mornin’ And the little wee drummer, we flattened his bow And we made a football of his rowdy-dow-dow Threw it in the tide for to rock and to roll And bade it a tedious returnin’ And we having’ no money, paid them off in cracks We paid no respect to their two bloody backs And we lathered them there like a pair of wet sacks And left them for dead in the mornin’ And so to conclude and to finish the disputes We obligingly asked if they wanted recruits For we were the lads who would give them hard clouts And bid them look sharp in the mornin Oh me and my cousin, one Arthur McBride As we went a-walkin’ down by the seaside Mark now what followed and what did betide For it bein’ on Christmas mornin' * an Irish (Celtic) word, meaning propably a bird, or something else from the irish myth...  alles-uke.de