. . .Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor, For 'alf o' Creation she owns: We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame, An' we've salted it down with our bones. (Poor beggars! — it's blue with our bones!) Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow, Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop, For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"! (Poor beggars! — we're sent to say "Stop"!) Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow, From the Pole to the Tropics it runs — To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file, An' open in form with the guns. (Poor beggars! — it's always they guns!) We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor, It's safest to let 'er alone: For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land Wherever the bugles are blown. (Poor beggars! — an' don't we get blown!) Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin', . . . Read More