What are the bugles blowin' for?' said Files-on-Parade. ‘To turn you out, to turn you out,' the Colour-Sergeant said. ‘What makes you look so white, so white?' said Files-on-Parade. ‘I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch,' the Colour-Sergeant said. For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play, The Regiment's in 'ollow square—they're hangin' him to-day; They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away, An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
‘What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?' said Files-on-Parade. ‘It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold,' the Colour-Sergeant said. ‘What makes that front-rank man fall down?' said Files-on-Parade. ‘A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun,' the Colour-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round, They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground; An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound— O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin!'
‘'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine,' said Files-on-Parade. ‘'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night,' the Colour-Sergeant said. ‘I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times,' said Files-on-Parade. ‘'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone,' the Colour-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place, For 'e shot a comrade sleepin'—you must look 'im in the face; Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the Regiment's disgrace, While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
‘What's that so black agin the sun?' said Files-on-Parade. ‘It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life,' the Colour-Sergeant said. ‘What's that that whimpers over'ead?' said Files-on-Parade. ‘It's Danny's soul that's passin' now,' the Colour-Sergeant said. For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play, The Regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away; Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day, After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
