Put down thee shool, gude neighbour Jan,
Don’ do no wark to-day;
Let bide the plough, brish up thee cloas,
Vor us mis’ get away
Right up to Axter like a zhat,
An’ jis let what will kom;
Vor tes the day the volk be gwain
To welcome Buller home.

An’ zo us lied the shool away,
Us let the turmots bide,
An’ dressed ourzels aul in our best,
To zee ole Demshur’s pride.
Zes Uncle Tom, “Turn out betimes,”
Let's ztart off middlin’ zune;
Thur’ll be zum purty capers mind
T’Exter, zarternoon.

An’ zo us med ourzels luke zmurt,
And ’arnessed in the oss;
Us tied zum ribbons to ees yers
(Urd, white, an’ blue, o’ cuse).
Then ’way da go in vitty style,
An’ gi’d the whip a crack
(At sich times, Tom draves proper, not
“Come ’ither way—wug back”).

An’ when us comed to Axter town,
My, What a zite us seed!
The vlags ’anged out, an’ volks did zhout
Way-out wan bit o’ need.
“Yer! us’ll kape our nize,” zes Tom,
“Tull Gen’ral Buller comes.”
(Our zhouts wiz best vor kapin’, vor
Us vairly drowned they drums.)

Thur wiz me, that’s wan, and Uncle Tom,
That’s two; thur wiz Jan Stewer,
That make us dree, and number vour,
The Saxon—old Weel Brewer.
Then Dan’l Whiddon, ’Arry ’Awk,
An’ poor ole Peter Gurney,
Who alliz ’aves zich quare ole gytes,
That volk ’ave named an Turney.

Umby, us yeered the band strike up,
“They’m comin’ now,” zes I.
“Let’s vind a place whur us can ztand,
An’ zee un passin’ by.”
Zo up us got pin tap zum ztones,
That stood wan zide tha ro-ad
(The chap as cracked un zwared a bit,
An’ zed I was a to-ad).

Us knowed jis whur the Gen’ral was,
Vor when ’e drayed up near,
The roar us yeered a gurt ways off
Turned gradual to a cheer.
Then the percession comed in zite,
An’ twaz our turn to shout,—
Tes like theas yer, I be dalled eef
Us didn’ jis let out:

Up comed the sojers dressed in urd,
And zum way jackets blue;
An’ zum way guns, an zum way zords,
An’ zum pin osses, too.
An’ zum way ’ats like wumman’s muffs,
An’ zum way spikes pin tap
(Eef you wiz zot pin wan o’ they,
My eyes, twould make ’e hop).

Vust carridge ’ad a coachman and
A vootman up-to-dick,
Aul dressed in liv’ry an’ gold-lace—
But twadn’ Buller’s, thik.
Twaz Mr. Dunn, tha las’ new mayer,
An’ ’ e waz lookin’ vine,
Way long urd coat, an’ black cocked hat,
My! how ees vaace did zhine!

The next waz Buller’s carriage though.
As us could plainly zee;
Vor tha coachman an’ tha vootman too
Was dressed up in karkee.
Sir Redvers had a urd coat on,
Way veathers in ees ’at—
Laurd, what a man us should a-loss
Eef Bullet ’ad bid zhat.

“’E smileth now,” zes Uncle Tom,
“But eef us only knowed,
I’ll mak’ ’e bet that often-times
The tears have overflowed.”
I often thinks that volks vorgets
When unkind things be zaith,
The hardest thing a Gen’ral du-s
Is to zend chaps to thur death.

“‘Theas yer is what ur should a-do’d,’
Goes wan mump-’aded vlat.
Another zes, ‘Eef I’d bin thur
I’d never a-do’d that.’
But when they zes that Buller ’ad
A plenty mane out there,
They aul vorgets twaz lives, nit mane,
’E ’adden got to spare.”

But now the turble task is done,
And, as ur passed the ztrate,
Ees ’ad the bitter part, zes I,
Now let un ’ave the zwate.
Then bate the drum and vire the gun,
An’ let the youngsters zee
What they’ll get, eef they risk thur lives
To keep Old England vree.

And then into the Castle Yard
Us went way thousands more;
To gi’ tha Gen’ral welcome home,
An’ “dree cheers ” by the score.
Till vourteen thousand volks stood round
A Buller brave and bold;
And thur ’e ztood—a Demshur Gem
Set in rale Demshur gold.

Twiz a zite vor men an’ wimmen
Growed old on Britain’s soil,
Twiz a zite vor Lords an’ Princes,
Twiz a zite vor zons of toil;
A zite vor little chilern
To think on by-and-bye,
When us welcomed home a brave man
Who went to do or die.