(to the tune of Blaydon Races)
By Tim Abbott
a.k.a The Caped Continental
Oh me lads, ya should a seen us rowin’
The Battoe “Moon” in a drunken swoon, an’ not a Redcoat knowin’!
All the grenadiers asleep wi’ smiles upon their faces
Gannin’ along Wyomin' Wood…to taste the King’s saus-ages!
Aw went out to Wyomin', ‘twas the anniversary
We had a score to settle there, an' comrades that were willin’
To take King George’s sausages but ne'er take his shillin’!
A price there wa’ upon the head of Sgt. Davie Skorka,
His insolence did most incense some grenadiers in bearskin
Who called him Macaron’ an’ other names unfit to mention!
The evening started fair enough wi’ singin’ an’ wi' spirit,
An' Patriots from every fire came over just to hear it.
We sang them Barrett’s Privateers, an' Rovin’s Been my Ru-i-n.
The notes an' lyrics all are blue, when Skorka calls the tu-i-n!
The boys wa’ getting thirsty, an' aw was thirsty too;
An’ we got a taste for lobsters, but Lobsters there were few.
The bloody backs had all made tracks from bayonet-less charges
An' now slept tight in linen white, where Skorka’s band at large is!
Aw saw an ancient mariner, a Bosun from the “Moon”,
We shipped our oars an' drank his grog an' sang the Battoe’s praises,
Then saw a sight, though it was night, put smiles upon our faces!
We took aboard a passenger, a Briton to our ears,
Though all were tight, at dark of night, he offered us refreshment
An' a midnight snack, by sneak attack, on the 35th‘s encampment!
We sauntered an' we stumbled where the laurel blossoms bloom :
We found our foemen sleeping an' we sampled of their wares, then,
An' admired their orange facings an' their helmets made from bearskin!
An' when the day had broken an' we all came to our senses,
The 35th were sorely miffed at Skorka’s grave offences!
The Batman lost his stripes again, but we hope they do not harm ‘im,
An' invite our foe to have a go this September at Mount Harmon!