Who's for the trench—
Are you, my laddie
Who'll follow French—
Will you, my laddie
Who's fretting to begin,
Who's going out to win
And who wants to save his skin—
Do you, my laddie

Who's for the khaki suit—
Are you, my laddie
Who longs to charge and shoot—
Do you, my laddie
Who's keen on getting fit,
Who means to show his grit,
And who'd rather wait a bit—
Would you, my laddie

Who'll earn the Empire's thanks—
Will you, my laddie
Who'll swell the victor's ranks—
Will you, my laddie
When that procession comes,
Banners and rolling drums—
Who'll stand and bite his thumbs—
Will you, my laddie

Now once a young man courted me,
And wan my tender heart, O,
Now he is gone to serve the king,
Woes me that we must part, O.

O the wars, the cruel wars,
Has left me here a mourning,
Has taken my bonny English lad,
Small hope of his returning.

A serjeant unto Muirkirk came,
And tempt'd him with much money,
And he was swear't to let him gang,
He handsome was and bonny.

O the wars, the cruel wars,
Has left me here a mourning,
Has taken my bonny English lad,
Small hope of his returning.

His face was fair, his humour free,
With modest kind discretion,
Great honesty experienc'd he,
As many in the nation.

O the wars, the cruel wars,
Has left me here a mourning,
Has taken my bonny English lad,
Small hope of his returning.

The forge hammer lies by for him,
Alas! now his room is empty,
And he must learn a soldier's reel,
To hear their drums they tempt ay.

O the wars, the cruel wars,
Has left me here a mourning,
Has taken my bonny English lad,
Small hope of his returning.

At night when I should take my rest,
Mine eye's debar'd from sleeping,
To think on him that I love best,
That has my heart a-keeping.

O the wars, the cruel wars,
Has left me here a mourning,
Has taken my bonny English lad,
Small hope of his returning.

May Providence preserve him still,
Tho' he be turn'd a rover,
And left me sore against my will,
A poor unhappy lover.

O the wars, the cruel wars,
Has left me here a mourning,
Has taken my bonny English lad,
Small hope of his returning.

But Providence grant the wars may cease,
That I once more may see him,
Their blackguard tongues is ill to bear,
I wish I had gone with him.

O the wars, the cruel wars,
Has left me here a mourning,
Has taken my bonny English lad,
Small hope of his returning.