"WHAT are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files- on-Parade. "To turn you out, to turn you out," the Color- Sergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade. "I'm dreadin' what I 're got to watch," the Color- 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're 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 Color Ser- geant said. "What makes that front-rank man fall down?" says Files-on-Parade. " A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun," the Color-Ser- geant 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 sneak- in' 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 Color- Sergeant said. "I 're drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files- on-Parade. "'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Color-Ser- geant 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. "I t's Danny fightin' 'ard for life," the Color-Ser- geant said. "What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade. "It 's Danny's soul that 's passin' now," the Color- 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'. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: LILLI ALM by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE NEW APOCRYPHA: BERENICE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS FACADE: 24. AN OLD WOMAN LAMENTS IN SPRINGTIME by EDITH SITWELL PREFACE TO ERINNA'S POEMS by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS ON BEING ASKED IF ONE WAS A NUMBER, REPLY TO MR. HOUGHTON by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD VERSES, SUGGESTED BY THE FUNERAL OF AN EPITAPH IN BURY CHURCH-YARD by BERNARD BARTON TO MR. WILLIAM BASSE UPON THE NOW PUBLISHING OF HIS POEMS by RALPH BATHURST |