Hamish Henderson - Ballads of World War 2

These ballads were written by Hamish Henderson during the Second World War and because of that, reflect that time. Some of the language taken out of this context seems racist and derogatory and so the ballads must be read within the historical framework in which they were written.

The Ballad of the D-Day Dodgers

(A rumour started in Italy that Lady Astor had referred to the boys of the C.M.F. as D-Day dodgers).

We're the D-day Dodgers, out in Italy -

Always on the vino, always on the spree.

8th Army scroungers and their tanks

We live in Rome - among the Yanks.

We are the D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy.

We landed at Salerno, a holiday with pay;

The Jerries brought the bands out to greet us on the way ...

Showed us the sights and gave us tea.

We all sang songs - the beer was free,

To welcome D-Day dodgers to sunny Italy.

Naples and Cassino were taken in our stride,

We didn't go to fight there - we went there for the ride.

Anzio and Sangro were just names, We only went to look for dames -

The artful D-Day dodgers, way out in Italy.

On the way to Florence we had a lovely time.

We ran a bus to Rimini right through the Gothic Line.

Soon to Bologna we will go

And after that we'll cross the Po.

We'll still be D-Day dodging, way out in Italy.

Once we heard a rumour that we were going home,

Back to dear Old Blighty - never more to roam.

Then someone said: "In France you'll fight!"

We said: "No fear - we'll just sit tight!"

(The windy D-Day dodgers, way out in Italy).

We hope the Second Army will soon get home on leave;

After six month's service it's' time for their reprieve.

But we can carry on out here

Another two or three more years -

Contented D-Day Dodgers to stay in Utaly.

Dear Lady Astor, you think you know a lot,

Standing on a platform and talking tommy-rot.

You, England's sweetheart and its pride,

We think your mouth's too bloody wide

That's from your D-day Dodgers - in far off Italy.

Look around the mountains in the mud and rain -

You'll find the scattered crosses - (there's some which have no name).

Heartbreak and toil and suffering gone,

The boys beneath them slumber on.

Those are the D-Day Dodgers who'll stay in Italy.

(Tune:Lili Marleen ).

The Ballad of Wadi Maktilla

(Describing a somewhat abortive raid by the 2nd Camerons on an Italian outpost about 12 miles East of Sidi Barrani – 1940)

Now here is my story, it happened one night,

How the Seventy-Ninth they went into a fight.

They were carried in lorries over bump, rock and cranny –

Many arses felt sore on that road to Barrani!

Chorus:

What the hell ‘S all the fuss?

O wouldn’t you, wouldn’t you like to be us?

Then we hoofed it along, lads to Musso’s armed villa

- A stronghold it was, and named Wadi Maktilla.

We tip-toed along, as we came near our mark –

Not a sound could be heard, all was silent and dark.

Then suddenly the It is let go all they had;

It’s a bloody good job that their aiming was bad.

We got down on the ground and we lay as if dead,

While the shells and the whizzbangs flew over our head.

Many lads prayed to heaven, which before they’d forsaken,

And they thought that they’d eaten their last of tinned bacon.

But the It is felt worse as they lay in their sangars,

And their guns roared in fear, for it wasn’t in anger.

There were Libyans against us, both filthy and black

But we yelled Cabar Feidh! as we pressed the attack.

Then the Wops shouted “Bruno” on whom they are nuts,

But they got for their pains cold steel in their guts.

Now most of the Camerons, there isn’t a doubt,

Got corns on their knees from this crawling about.

But the blokes that lay flat brought us many a grin,

For most of their bellies were all hackit-skin.

When at last we emerged from that unhealthy zone,

We got on the trucks and we headed for home.

You can say what you like, you have plenty of scope,

Do you think we enjoyed it? My Christ! What a hope!

(Tune: Villikens and His Dinah, alias The Ould Orange Flute).

Ballad of the Big Nobs

There’s Wavell, there’s Wavell
And he contemplates his navel
But he was some fuckin’ use
To the Eighth Ar-mee.

There’s the Auk, there’s the Auk
And although some bastards talk
Och, he didn’t do so bad
For the Eighth Ar-mee.

There’s Ritchie, there’s Ritchie
And his arse is feeling itchie
For he wasn’t much fucking use
To the Eighth Ar-mee.

There’s Stalin, there’s Stalin
That the worker’s got a pal in,
And he is some fuckin’ use
To the Eighth Ar-mee.

There’s Winston, there’s Winston
And he ought to be in Princetown
But he is some fuckin’ use
To the Eighth Ar-mee.

O we had two Hielan ladies -
Now we’ve got two Irish paddies.
Let’s hope there some fuckin’ use
To the Eighth Ar-mee.

(Sung September 1942)

The Roads to Rome

The Caesars were a randy crew -
Ye ken the story o’m.
They tauld this tale tae Goy and Jew
That a’ roads lead tae Rome.

But for a’ the haverin o’ the runts,
An’ the bletherin blarney o’m
Ye heard ae sang frae a’ oor fronts
There’s nae road leads tae Rome.

- But noo ye’ll hear the pipers play
Afore St. Peter’s Dome
And Scotland tells the world today
That oor road led to Rome.

Ballad of the Taxi Driver’s Cap

(To a refrain by M. J. Craig)

O Hitler’s a non-smoker
And Churchill smokes cigars
And they’re both as keen as mustard
On imperialistic wars.
But your uncle Joe’s a worker
And a very decent chap
Because he smokes a pipe and wears a taxi-driver’s cap.

When Rommel got to Alamein
And shook the British line
The whole of Cairo beat it to
The land of Palestine.
But Moscow’s never raised a yell
And never had a flap
Because Joe smokes a pipe and wears
A taxi-driver’s cap.

That Hitler’s armies can’t be beat
Is just a lot of cock,
For Marshall Timoshenko’s boys
Are passing through von Bock.

The Fuhrer makes the bloomers
And his Marshals take the rap;
Meanwhile Joe smokes a pipe and wears
A taxi-driver’s cap.

The Fascist drive on Stalingrad
Is going mighty slow.
They’ve got a room in Number Nine
Of Slobberskaya Row.
When Fascist armies start to run
Old Gobbels fills the gap.
Meanwhile Joe smokes a pipe and wears
A taxi-driver’s cap.

At home those beggars publicise
The deeds of “our Ally”
Whose dearest wish was once to biff
The bolshie’s in the eye.
Your uncle Joe is wise to this;
He isn’t such a sap
Although he smokes a pipe and wears
A taxi-driver’s cap.

The Highland Division’s Farewell to Sicily

The pipie is dozie, the pipe is fey,
He ulnae come roon for his vino the day.
The sky ower Messina is antrin an’ grey
And a’ bricht chaulmers are eerie.

Then fare weel ye banks o’ Sicily
Fare ye weel ye valley an’ shaw.
There’s nae Jock will mourn the kyles o’ ye
Puir biddy bastards are weary.

Then doon the stair and line the waterside
Wait your turn, the ferry’s awa.
Then doon the stair and line the waterside
A’ the bricht chaulmers are eerie.

The drummie is polish, the drummie is braw
He cannae be seen for his webbin ava.
He’s beezed himself up for a photo an’ a’
Tae leave wi his Lola, his dearie.

Then fare weel ye dives o’ Sicily
(Fare ye weel ye shieling an’ ha’)
And fare weel ye bryes and bothies
Whaur kind signorinas were cheerie.

And fare weel ye dives o’ Sicily
(Fare ye weel ye shieling an’ ha’)
We’ll a’ mind sheens and bothies
Whaur Jock made a date wi’ his dearie.

Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum -
(Leave your kit this side o’ the wa’)
Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum -
A’ the bricht chaulmers are eerie.

Song of the Tunisian Gaullistes

Rommel de la Mer Rouge
Va atteindre les bords.
Que personne ne bouge -
Voila L’Afrika Korps!

Chorus:

Sur la terre ronde
Qu’il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon,
Sur la terre ronde
Qu’il fait bon courir!

Du haut des Pyramides
Les siecles en emoi
Attendant les bolides
En palpitant defray.

Des souvenirs du Caire
Nous archenterons aux Souks.
Helas, la guerre-exlair
Les ramene a Tobrouk.

Toujours avec vaillance
L’armee de Musssolini
Poursuivant son avance
Revient a Tripoli.

La magnifique armee
Du General LECLERC
Pousse a marches forcees
Au travers du desert.

Pour des positions pretes
De tout l’eternite
Bondissant de Maret
L’Axe s’est elance.

Et va, que je te pousse,
Glorieuse Armee de l’Axe!
Rommel plein d’allegresse
Sur le Po s’installera.

Rommel laisse la troupe
Des braves macaronis.
Ce sera pour la soupe
De l’armee Montgomery.

Ces messieurs ont le trac
Et fuient sans resistance.
L’allie pour Jeanne d’Arc
Pass’ra la Porte de France.

(Tune: Aupres de ma Blonde)

The Ballad of King Faruk and Queen Farida

O we’re all black bastards, but we do love our king.
Every night at the flicks you can hear us fuckin’ sing:
Quais ketir, king Faruk,
Quais ketir, king Faruk,
O you can’t fuck Farida if you don’t pay Faruk.

O we’re just fuckin’ wogs, but we do love him so,
And we all do without just to keep him on the go;
From Sollum to Solluch,
Tel el kebir to Tobruk,
O you can’t fuck Farida if you don’t pay Faruk.

O we’re just damned niggers that a bugger brought to birth,
But when we have a bint, then we want our money’s worth.
You may have a tarboosh,
A gamel, a gamoos,
But you can’t have Farida if you aint’t got filoos.

O it’s no use to say, if you want to have it in,
“Be a sport, King Faruk.” He would only fuckin’ grin.
You may beg on your knees,
He would just say “Mafeesh.”
O you wont get Farida if you don’t give baksheesh.

O his subjects all tell of the fame of kinf Faruk
From Gezira to the Turf, from Helwan to Bab-el-Louk.
They can tell what a sell
Hangs their balls on a hook
For they can’t fuck Farida if they don’t fuck Faruk!

If her bourdoir you pass ‘tween the hours of ten and two
You will see all the Wafd standing waiting in a queue.
Though Nahas ain’t an ass,
Though Nahas is a crook,
Still he can’t Farida if he don’t pay Faruk.

O it’s not hard to see poor Delilah’s up a tree,
For the “She” wears the horns in the Lampson familee.
Old Sir Miles with his wiles
In advance tries to book -
Still he can’t fuck Farida if he don’t pay Faruk.

If you feel like a grind when you’ve had a pint of beer,
To the Berka wend your way, where it ain’t too fuckin’ dear,
Quais ketir, mangariyeh,
Quais ketir gonorrhoea.
Shufty kus. Got filoos? Shove it up - from the rear!

Queen farida’s very gay when Faruk has got his pay,
But she ain’t so bleedin’ glad when she’s in the family way
Stanna schwaya! O desire!
Starina schwaya! Pull your wire.
Pull your pud. Does you good. Send it higher! Send it higher!

King Faruk! King Faruk! Hang your ballocks on a hook!
King Faruk! King Faruk! Let the swaddles have a look.
Quais ketir Abassia!
Bags o’ beer. Shit and fear!
Up your pipe! Take a swipe! Quais ketir! Quais ketir!

O this song that you’ve heard is the song the Gippos sing,
And they’d sing just the same if we made old Nahas king.
Quais ketir, Nahas Pash,
Quais ketir, Nahas Pash,
O we wont mind your morals if you hand out the cash.

And this song that you’ve heard is the song the Gippos sing,
And they’d sing just the same if they’d Rommel for a king.
Quais ketir, Rommel dear,
Quais ketir, Rommle dear,
O we’re glad you’ve won the battle and we’re so bucked you’re here!

FINALE:

Then sing Sieg Heil for Egypt’s king
And to his feet your tributes bring.
Quais ketir, King Faruk,
Quais ketir, King Faruk,
O you can’t fuck Farida if you don’t pay Faruk.

Tune: Salam el Malik (Egyptian National Anthem)

Chiefly the authentic version as sung (1942) in the First South African Division, Seventh Armoured Division, Ninth Australian Division, Second New Zealand Division and Fifty First Highland Division.

Glossary: Quais ketir - plenty good; bint - woman; tarboosh - fez; gamel - camel; gamoos - water buffalo; el-Louk - Cairene railway terminus; stanna shwaya - take it easy (Literally stay a little).

The Blubbing Buchmanite

When Moscow sends the call at night
“Workers of the world unite!”
The lads begin to wonder when
The human race will act like men.

And Tam (from Greenock) tells us why
The bosses send us out to die.
He says: “We Scots have gone to seed -
A revolution’s what we need!”

But Micah Grant (from Shotts) starts in
To tell us how to deal with Sin -
He calls on us to turn again,
And then resumes his old refrain:

“A revolution in the mind
Will be more couthie, will be more kind.
A revolution in the brain
Will not annoy the Boss again.”

“At times” he says “the workers feel
They’ve had a pretty rotten deal;
But if they search their inmost hearts
They’ll find that’s due to Satan’s arts.

“I see what few have understood -
God tries the worker for his good;
Each lustful keek at Katie Brown
Will dock his wages half a crown!”

“So don’t provoke the Mighty God
Too sore, or you will feel the rod.
The Lord destroys that fool who fights
For earthly things like workers’ rights.”

“A revolution in the mind
Will be more couthie, will be more kind.
A revolution in the brain
Will not annoy the boss again.”

But Tam gets back his breath and cries:
You creeping Jesus, damn your eyes!
It’s canting cunts like you who sap
The worker’s spirit. Shut your trap!

“A revolution in the soul
Will leave the bosses’ profits whole
A revolution in the heart
Won’t help the workers’ cause a fart.”

“We cannot have too blinking few
God-awful bums the like of you!
If just once more you try to wreck
The workers’ fight, I’ll wring your neck.”

Ballad of the Banffies

You can talk about your Moray loons,
Sae handsome and sae braw;
The Royal Scottish Fusiliers,
A scruffy lot and a’
The Cameronians frae the South,
They sure are mighty fine,
But in the Battle of Anzio
‘Twas the Banffies held the line.

The crofters’ sons o’ Banffshire,
The cooper frae the glen,
The weaver frae Strathisla,
Aye, and shepherd frae the ben;
The fisher lads alang the coast,
They a’ made up their min’
Tae fecht an’ save their country
In Nineteen Thirty Nine.

Von Arnim knew that he was beat
When he capitulated.
The mistake he made was the Banffies
Whome he underestimated.
They chased them frae the Atlas hills
And they threw them in the sea;
Then across tae Pantellaria,
Some nair territory to free.

Then Alex said: “Our troops maun land
A few miles Sooth o’Rome;
The Banffies are my strongest point,
They sure can send it home.”
They landed up at Anzio
In January Forty Four
And havena captured Rome yet
But are knockin’ at the door.

Ye can talk aboot your Scots Guards
Sae handsome and sae strong,
But unlike oor wee Banffies
They canna haud on for long.
In years to come, when Italy
Is free, an’ the Balkans too
Your bairns will read in history
How the banffies pulled us through.

ENVOI:

Where’er ye be, by land or sea
Or hirplin’ in the road
If ye can meet a Banff, ye’ll find
He sure can bum his load.

(Tune: The Gallant Forty Twa)