When the Drums Begin to Roll

I’ve just been having discussions with some of our British friends about the general fastidiousness and disdain shown by the English middle- and upper-classes towards the working-class “fascist brutes” of the English Defence League. It put me in mind of a certain poem by Rudyard Kipling, especially since the leader of the EDL has taken “Tommy Robinson” as his nom de guerre.

So let’s dedicate this one to Tommy Robinson and the English Defence League:

Tommy
by Rudyard Kipling

I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
The publican ’e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
     O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
     But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band
          begins to play,
     The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
     O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ’adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!
     For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy,
          wait outside”;
     But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
     The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
     O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
     Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’
          “Tommy, ’ow’s yer soul?”
     But it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
     The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
     O it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

We aren’t no thin red ’eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;
     While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy,
          fall be’ind”,
     But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble
          in the wind,
     There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
     O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble
          in the wind.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
     For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out,
          the brute!”
     But it’s “Saviour of ’is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
     An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
     An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool — you bet that Tommy sees!